


Citadel

by sefk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sefk/pseuds/sefk
Summary: After the chandelier crashes in Malfoy Manor, Hermione is left behind in the wreckage."Stop looking for the good in me, Granger," he finally whispered. "I don't have that luxury anymore."DM/HG. Post HBP.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add a larger Harry Potter / Dramione disclaimer. 
> 
> The first is that I do not endorse JKR’s views on the trans community. I am so appalled by her (and the HP actors who refuse to speak up) continual endorsement of transphobia. Trans rights are human rights. 
> 
> Second is on the concept of Dramione. I started this story because I was curious about what could have made Draco Malfoy a redeemed character in my eyes, especially as he does join the Death Eaters willingly and is incredibly spoiled (and not abused) in the books. I think that fanon has largely said that he should be redeemed, but that doesn’t take away from his actions that were made of his own accord. I obviously think people can evolve and change, but that does not erase his past. In writing Dramione, I often find Draco is portrayed as abused/weak/manipulated, and I also wanted to challenge that idea.
> 
> I also take issue with the way that a lot of Dramione fanfics are written (namely, the amount of sexual assault / coercion, ease of forgiveness of a childhood bully who called her slurs, etc.). I am very mindful of this while writing, and please feel free to call me out if I make you uncomfortable (I can’t promise I’ll always change things, but would love to know going forward) or making things dark for the sake of being dark.
> 
> Lastly, the first few chapters are taken pretty directly from the HP books (quotes, etc.) to keep it as canon compliant as possible. While I don't think the writing style in itself shifts, there is a slight change in the dialogue and writing once that is over.
> 
> I also wanted to add the visuals I've been using for this story, in case you wanted to see the "Malfoy Manor" that I'm working off of: https://www.canva.com/design/DAEO1JHHU8c/Ryl6AUfKYW7h7y7Y-X-Xkw/view?utm_content=DAEO1JHHU8c&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link&utm_source=homepage_design_menu

It had all happened so fast.

One moment they had been relaxed - too relaxed - and the next they were scrambling through the woods. She knew she didn’t have much time, and so Hermione grasped her wand and muttered the stinging charm, making sure Harry’s face was as swollen as possible. She wanted to scream, but instead her mind repeated the mantra it had for the past few months: _Protect Harry. Protect Ron._

There had been moments where she questioned everything over the past few months. How she, a sensible person, had allowed herself to be pulled so fully into this world. There had been moments where she had yearned to stay with her parents, to have taken algebra and geography instead of potions and defense against the dark arts, and she had often wondered if Harry felt the same.

It was different for them - with one foot out of the world they were fighting for.

She knew she could have never given it up. She would never relinquish the power she felt surge through her veins when she gripped her wand, or the moment of elation when her potion turned the correct color, but in moments like these, she wished she could.

Those were the thoughts in her head as she saw the hands dragging Harry back from her view. She yearned for the basic ballet classes she was so awful at, prancing around as Madame Sylvie yelled at her, as she felt someone grab her in the darkness.

She scrambled away from the hands but felt the someone in the shadows grip her ankle. She gasped in pain as she was yanked backwards, her face scraping on the hard dirt, and heard Ron shout at the people - Snatchers - to let her go before one of them hit him.

Suddenly she felt hot breath on her neck, and she stilled as the person licked the outer shell of her ear. A hand touched the bare small of her back where her sweater had ridden up, and she could feel the sharp fingernail prick her skin.

“Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done to him if he’s on my list. Delicious girl, what a treat… I do enjoy the softness of the skin…”

She felt fear down her spine as she recognized the voice of Fernir Greyback, who was known in the Order for his brutal interactions with women in particular. She tried to make herself as small as possible as she felt his hand roughly grab her side through her sweater before he left to help search the tent. She let out a shuddering breath as she tried to reconcile what had happened as another one of them tossed her on the ground next to Harry and Ron.

She heard the men stomping through the tent before they turned to the three of them on the ground. Greyback shoved his wand in Harry’s face; Hermione let herself feel happy as he was unable to recognize the famed Harry Potter, before her mind started reeling to figure out any way to get them out of this situation. She heard them ask Ron’s name and heard him lie before gasping again as she saw one of the men who - the one they called Scabior - punch him square across the jaw.

“…Bardy,” Ron answered, blood spilling down his chin. “Bardy Weasley.”

Hermione looked up to see a feral smile spread across the werewolf’s face as he began to speak.

“A Weasley? So, you’re related to blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood,” he said, disgust present in his voice. Hermione turned her eyes back down to the ground as Greyback turned towards her.

“And lastly,” he said, the lust present in his voice. “Your pretty little friend…”

“Easy, Greyback,” Scabior said, even he, it seemed, was disguised by the level of excitement that Greyback had. Greyback shook his head at the other man, the wide smile still present on his face.

“Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny,” he said, with a glance towards where Ron lay, trying to breathe around his broken nose. “Who are you, girly?”

Hermione had already considered the possibility of being caught, and it took her no time at all to give the name she had already decided to take on. With a mental thank you to the other woman, she clearly said “Penelope Clearwater.”

Greyback seemed convinced, only asking her her blood status.

“Half-Blood,” she responded, hating the lilt of the fear in her voice.

“That’s easy enough to check, but the whole lot of ‘em look like they could be Hogwarts age,” he said, glancing at Greyback for confirmation. The werewolf nodded, signaling at another one of the men to bring something over.

“We’b lebt,” Ron said, bringing up one of his hands to swipe at some of the blood on his face. Hermione winced as one of the men prodded him with his wand.

“Left, ‘ave you, ginger? And you decided to go camping? And you though, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”

“Not a laugh,” Ron insisted. “Aggiden.”

The Snatchers laughed in unison.

“You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name, Weasley?” Growled Greyback. “The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”

Ron shook his head no, muttering the word quietly, but Hermione knew they were already caught. Everyone knew the Weasleys were blood traitors - she wished Ron had used any other last name - and that in combination of the taboo made them immediately suspicious.

“Well,” Greyback said. “ _They_ don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked that way. We’ll see.”

She felt Ron tense beside her.

“Bind them up with the other two prisoners!”

Hands grabbed at Hermione, straying a little too far down her sides again, and she flinched away as she was tossed and bound with Harry and Ron.

“Anyone still got a wand?” Harry whispered, causing her to shake her head and Ron to angrily mutter that he didn’t either.

She heard Ron sniffle, and Harry grunted slightly before he apologized. “This is all my fault; I said the name. I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking slightly. Hermione shook her head, knowing that with Harry’s insistence that the fear of the name only increased fear unduly that this was bound to happen at some point.

She was lost in her thoughts when another voice spoke in the darkness.

“Harry?”

Immediately, her heart sunk as she recognized that Dean Thomas was the prisoner on her left. Harry took a second longer, asking “Dean?”

“It is you!” Dean exclaimed, sounding almost too excited for their predicament before continuing. “It is you! If they find out who they've got-!” He trailed off, as if realizing for the first time the amount of danger they were in.

"They’re Snatchers, they're only looking for truants to sell for gold,” Dean said as a warning. He stopped as the gruesome werewolf approached their sad group once more.

“Not a bad little haul for one night,” the older man said, giving Hermione another chill-inducing once-over. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and these truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?”

Scabior called back to Greyback that he hadn’t found their names, causing Greyback to crouch to the ground. For a man so large, he did move stealthily - ironically, almost like a cat, Hermione thought. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his presence as he prodded Harry for his Hogwarts house.

“Slytherin,” she heard Harry say automatically.

Hermione heard Scabior laugh, “Funny 'ow they all thinks we wants to 'ear that, but none of 'em can tell us where the common room is."

Hermione almost smiled with relief. She would take the moments that she could get.

“It’s in the dungeons." said Harry clearly. "You enter through the wall. It's full of skulls and stuff and it’s under the lake, so the light's all green.”

Scabior chucked again. “Well, well, looks like we really 'ave caught a little Slytherin. Good for you, Vernon, 'cause there ain't a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who's your father?”

"He works at the Ministry, in the… Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

Hermione held her breath.

"You know what, Greyback," said Scabior. ”I think there is a Dudley in there."

She breathed out as Greyback began speaking - telling Harry they would return him to his father. She knew they didn’t have much time as she frantically looked for anything to help remove them from their current situation, all the while knowing there was nothing she could do.

And then she knew they were doomed.

One of the men emerged from their tent, boasting Gryffindor’s sword, and all too soon she heard her own, real, name. Greyback seemed all too enthusiastic with this revelation, crouching before her. She flinched as his rough hand grabbed her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his yellow ones. She could smell his breath, and it took all of her willpower to not gag.

"You know what, little girly?” he asked, his yellow teeth glinting in the lights, “This picture looks a hell of a lot like you."

She knew she was caught before she opened her mouth, but she insisted anyway. “It isn't! It isn't me!” The voice crack and pitch immediately gave her lie away. But Greyback’s focus had shifted and he pushed her face to the side as he murmured the dreaded words.

“…Known to be traveling with Harry Potter.”

Hermione heard Harry grunt in pain - his scar, she assumed, was likely burning. The silence in the clearing felt heavy, and she felt herself start to shake slightly. This was it. This was the end.

“Well,” she heard Greyback whisper. “That changes things, doesn’t it,” Suddenly, the werewolf was crouching in front of Harry once more.

"What's that on your forehead, Vernon?”

Hermione heard Harry yell "Don't touch it!” Confirming her worst fear of his headaches amidst this horrific situation.

"I thought you wore glasses, Potter?" She heard Greyback say, his lips disgustingly close to Harry’s ear, and thus her own.

One of the Snatchers jumped excitedly in her periphery, “I found glasses! There were glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait!”

She saw the hand shove the glasses onto Harry’s face as the group surrounded him.

"It is!" rasped Greyback. "We've caught Potter!”

Hermione felt herself slip mentally as the Snatchers debated their fate, but all she could hear in her head was the Potterwatch that would play in the upcoming days. She could already hear the memorial announcement as the rest of their friends had to go into hiding or risk being murdered in cold blood. How would they announce their deaths? Would they post their faces across _The_ _Prophet?_ She could see the headline already. _The Great Harry Potter is Dead: Mudbloods Surrender_. She was almost grateful she had no family left to see what spectacle was to come.

Would it be death or imprisonment or worse?

She felt a tear leak down her cheek as her breathing got shallow and her thoughts turned to how futile it all had been. She had spent more than six years protecting the men tied with her for it all to go down the drain in one moment of weakness. All of it, for nothing at all.

She only tuned back in when she heard another name she recognized.

“…They say he's using the Malfoy's place as a base. We'll take the boy there.”

She couldn’t think and heard her own breath coming out in shallow pants. She felt Ron struggle slightly, and then his warm hand lightly rested on top of her own. She forced herself to focus on the roughness of his fingers to bring herself back to reality. She could feel Harry’s head lull to the side, in pain, she assumed.

"Might as well take the lot. We've got two Mudbloods, that's another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as well. If they're rubies, that's another small fortune right there.”

The hands were back, yanking her to her feet before she was squeezed through the tube of Disapparation. Her heart sunk. This truly was the end. 


	2. Chapter 2

The only word to describe his current state was lost.

How had the Malfoy family fallen from such grace?

He knew his ancestors would be rolling in their graves to see him and his father bow to another man and to have the filth that roamed the halls of their family do so with such freedom. He could almost hear his grandmother scream every time their elves placed a meal in front of the dirty men who stayed in the North Wing of the house.

He was grateful - if you could even call it that - that the Dark Lord had allowed him and his family to retain their current chambers in the East Wing, giving them some separation from the operations that had taken over the mansion. He knew the Dark Lord had not done it out of kindness, but he was still thankful for the breathing room from the dark magic that seemed to be ever present in the halls of his home.

Not that dark magic hadn’t occupied his house before. Before, it had been a different type of dark magic, one that you could only feel at the corners of your aura. There were spaces in the home that he had never enjoyed - he had never loved the feeling of power that dark magic brought in the same way as his father had. His father drew the power from the magic while he shrunk under it. Potions was where he felt mastery, not the execution of innocents.

Now, you couldn’t walk through the hallways of the home without feeling the dark magic heavy on the air. It prickled at his skin, leaving him constantly exhausted. You could almost taste it - old and stale. The house had always been dark, but before it was dark and elegant. Now it was murderous.

Closing his eyes, he lay back on his bed, allowing the book in his hand drop beside him. He was counting the days until he could go back to Hogwarts. _Six._

He craved Pansy’s fingers in his hair as he dragged her into a broom closet. Or the feeling of Tracey’s hand in his when he walked her up the stairs into his dormitory. He would do anything to feel the sense of relief as Daphne shuddered around him, pressed against a wall somewhere in the castle.

Those moments of intimacy with women he couldn’t bring himself to care about were the only moments in which he let his Occlumency shields drop for a brief moment. Not fully - the last time he had let them drop completely, he had found himself thrusting into Pansy as he buried his face in her neck, tears falling. He knew she had felt them, but he couldn’t stand the pitying glance she gave him as he buttoned his pants. At one point she had been his closest friend, and now he didn’t know if he could trust her with anything, let alone his fear of the Dark Lord.

He was resigned to suffer silently, closing himself into his own mind.

Draco could hear a commotion from somewhere in the house and he sneered.

He remembered the days when he knew every time someone crossed the wards of Malfoy Manor. Just two years ago, before he was sent to prison, his father had shown him the extensive ward system of the Manor. It was fascinating charms work, having been built and woven together over the centuries that the Malfoy’s had occupied this land. Charms that had been started by the first Malfoys from France and updated by every Malfoy through his father. They had been taken down in favor of a basic set of wards and anti-apparition fields. Where once he could pass freely through his own home, he now knew he was a prisoner.

In another world, he wondered if he could have been a curse breaker, slowly working through wards like the system that he had been raised inside. He could have traveled abroad, brewing experimental potions and disarming systems to expose wizarding history. He would have written books on forgotten historical events and showed the world the superiority of wizards the proper way.

Of course, in that world he would have been receiving the full spectrum of NEWTs. He would have finally beaten Granger in all of the subjects he had battled against her for. He would have finally proved his superiority with no other distractions; maybe in that world he would have beaten her even earlier. He would have taken all of the tests and turned in all of his assignments in his seventh year - never having been pulled from the castle to casually murder in the countryside. He would have been able to focus, with no innocent eyes begging him for freedom from within his own mind every time he closed his own.

He groaned, dragging a hand through his white blonde hair, ignoring the slight ache as he lifted his wand arm.

He didn’t let himself fantasize about that alternate life often, but when he did, the reemergence into his current life - kissing the robes of another man, killing children as his fellow Death Eaters laughed, being tortured alongside his father as his mother silently cried in the corner - was all the more painful.

None of this was helped by his increasing knowledge of the muggle world. Not that muggles were on par with wizards, he assured himself. He knew better. He knew muggles were simpler creatures; he had often heard them referred to as swine, or pets. He knew their lack of magic made them dumber than wizards, prone to shorter lives and other preventable ailments.

Just because the horses in his stables could not perform the same tasks as he could did not mean they only deserved death. Everything had its purpose in the world. Besides, plenty of better wizards than he had willingly entered the muggle world, even generating fame and fortune there. While he agreed with the Dark Lord in theory, their methods of execution were very different.

But it was better to keep his mind blank at all times. These were dangerous thoughts. Anyone going against the Dark Lord, even in their own mind, was set up for failure and torture. These were thoughts that could only be considered in the dead of the night, not during the day when anyone walking by his door could attempt to peak into his mind.

So, his eyes returned to the pages in front of him.

* * *

His father was holding court. There was no other way to describe it - Lucius Malfoy sitting tall in his chair, grasping for any semblance or normality from before.

Everyone knew Lucius Malfoy was not the head of household in Malfoy Manor any longer. You could tell visually - his body and face looked older, and he no longer stood at his full height. He slunk around the halls he once strode through proudly, flinching at noises that were too loud. Most noticeably, he often failed to carry his wand, his cane noticeably shorter on those occasions. The Dark Lord would come, requesting the wand of his choice, leaving Lucius to surrender it to the other man.

The Dark Lord certainly knew how to humble his subjects.

Draco remembered the days where his father would do this imitation of royalty in their home before it had been occupied.

His father would call him into the drawing room, sitting in his large black armchair and forcing Draco to do the same. These were Draco’s best and worst memories of his father.

On the good days, they would discuss current events, the family company, or the business Lucius was involved in at the ministry. They would sip tea, and when Draco got older, firewhiskey, and he would treat his son as an equal. Their views were the same - Draco’s mirroring his father’s - and while it did not lead to the most stimulating conversation, there was nothing that brought him more joy than his father smirking proudly at him.

But on the bad days, Draco would sit in his chair, trying not to shrink before his father. His parents would never lay their hands on him, but the feeling of being told how inferior he was would never leave him. Lucius’ eyes would flash as he scolded Draco for being beaten for another year by some swotty Mudblood. He would never live down the mocking look on his father’s face as he asked him if he was a _girl_ , being hurt by a Hippogriff, complaining that he had to drag himself to Scotland to stick up for his weakling son. Or the look of disgust as Slytherin had failed to cinch the Quidditch cup or House cup, year after year - never mind the fact that his own father had directly contributed to the powers at play that had always allowed Potter to score so many points.

Once he had said so to his father, saying that maybe if his own father had been better during his time at Hogwarts that oaf Dumbledore wouldn’t hate their house and their family so much. That was the only time his father had struck him, and he had fled the room with the red handprint blazing on his cheek.

Despite all of it, for so long, all Draco had wanted to do was to be his father.

That was before his father had stupidly led his whole family into servitude for more than two decades, of course.

And now, Draco sat, staring at the dark purple walls as his father slowly got drunk, his favorite activity of late. Draco himself was nursing a second glass of firewhisky, but he was nowhere near the level of inebriation of his father. He was always surprised at how well the older man kept himself together, but Draco knew the tells. The shaking hands and glassy eyes couldn’t escape his notice any longer.

There was a crash at their front door and he and his father made wary eye contact as his mother excused herself to see what the commotion was. Draco saw his father’s lips draw together slightly and knew that he hated the fact that his wife was wrapped up in all of the Death Eater business. Draco knew he wanted to tell her to send an elf, which he would have if the Dark Lord hadn’t removed most of them from the servitude of the Malfoy’s directly.

Instead, Draco and his father sat silently, sipping and waiting for Narcissa’s return.

Another bang, and before he could truly understand what was happening, a horde of people was swarming the room. He stood alongside his father.

“What is this?” Lucius asked, looking first to his wife, before his lip curled as he recognized Greyback.

“They say they’ve got Potter,” he heard his mother say, her frightened eyes darting to him. “Draco, come here.”

Draco’s mind went into overdrive. If Potter was caught, that all but squashed any resistance that was left. Maybe this would be the end of-

He felt his father’s mind press against his own. He couldn’t tell if the man was too excited to wait for Draco to speak, or if he was reminding him to keep his shields up, so he let his mind go as blank as he possibly could. He felt his feet move of their own accord as he approached the bound bodies that had been shoved on the floor.

“Well, boy?” Greyback sneered. Draco sniffed distastefully. While he was scared of the werewolf, something he would never tell anyone else, at most moments he was more annoyed by the man. He was brash and had ruined his fair share of missions for the Dark Lord despite not even being an official Death Eater. He couldn’t believe the man was allowed to run freely. _He,_ Draco thought savagely, _was_ _more filthy than any muggle._

As he approached, he knew the figure on the floor - he refused to say Potter yet - was avoiding eye contact. The boy’s face was disfigured, but anyone could do that. The hair and the build were too similar to the man he spent his time obsessing over beating on the Quidditch pitch for years.

“Well, Draco?” he heard his father ask. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

This moment could be their redemption or their downfall, how did his father not see it. To call the Dark Lord and be wrong? He was attempting to avoid another unforgivable, at least for a few days. His father hadn’t been sent on any missions lately; he didn’t know the pain that Draco had been placed under just the night before.

“I can’t…” Draco closed his own eyes and took a deep breath. “I can’t be sure.”

His father could only see the return to normalcy. He could tell by his voice that his father had thrown the other option out of his head. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the vision of the future speaking. “But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”

“Draco,” he heard his father breathe. “If we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven-”

“Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr. Malfoy?” he heard the werewolf interrupt his father. In any other situation he was sure his father would have cursed the mutt, but it was a day with no wand and too much alcohol, so instead Lucius sounded gleeful.

“Of course not, of course not!” His father was drunk. “What did you do to him? How did he get into this state?”

Greyback grunted, ignoring as Lucius crouched down before the man that Draco was becoming increasingly sure was Harry Potter.

“That wasn't us.”

“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” his father said, searching the man’s face. “There’s something there,” he whispered. “It could be the scar, stretched tight….”

As Draco tried to take a step backwards, he heard himself summoned again. “Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”

Pushing down every emotion telling him to run from the room, Draco crouched down beside his overexcited father. As he looked into the man’s face, he knew immediately.

It was Harry Potter.

His brain was haywire. They should be calling the Dark Lord. He should have pressed his own finger against his left forearm and summoned the man immediately. He wasn’t sure what was stopping him, besides the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that if he did so, his hope would be gone.

The men made eye contact for a moment too long before Draco jerked backwards.

“I don’t know,” he said, standing to walk towards his mother, who stood silently at the corner of the room. He could see her worried eyes, and for a moment he was certain his own mother was going to call him on his bluff. But instead, she turned her light blue eyes back towards Lucius.

"We had better be certain, Lucius,” she said, ever the Death Eater’s wife. “Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord... They say this is his wand, but it does not resemble Ollivander's description.... If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing... Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”

That caused his father to take pause. Where Potter was concerned, blunders were not an option, Draco wanted to snarl. Draco knew he could provide them the clarity, but instead he focused on letting the thought go.

“What about the Mudblood, then?”

Draco’s eyes widened. He knew there were others in the pile, but he had been so focused on the singular man that he hadn’t truly taken in the others. As per usual, there were a few bound men who looked to be about his age, but also, there she was.

Even if Potter was unrecognizable, there was no disguising the bushy hair that signaled Hermione Granger. The other figure was so obviously Ron Weasley that if the situation hadn’t been so dire, he would have laughed. Did they even try? A simple glamour charm would have bought them some time, or potentially even their freedom. Stupid fucking Gryffindors.

He could see Granger’s hazel eyes, pleading up at him filled with unshed tears, but his mother answered before he could say anything.

“Wait… Yes, yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?”

 _Yes._ He drew his Occlumency up. "I… maybe... yeah.”

“But then, that's the Weasley boy! It's them, Potter's friends! Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name?” his father almost shouted. Draco flinched, turning to look at the portrait of Armand Malfoy that hung against the wall, only muttering a potential agreement. “It could be.”

He didn’t know what he was stalling for. There was no good outcome of this situation, and he would have to face the Dark Lord at some point. He was making things worse for himself. Then again, the Dark Lord seemed to despise him so much currently that there was almost no way that he would make it out of this without at least one _Crucio_.

And the Dark Lord underestimated how much of his mind he had locked away.

He could hear his father say something as the door swung open, revealing his mother’s sister. As per usual, she looked frantic, her dark hair rivaling Granger’s. Aunt Bella’s eyes were dark and lidded, and she scanned the scene carefully. This was the problem with Bellatrix Lestrange, the eyes and demeanor had caused people to underestimate her, historically. No longer - she had made a name for herself at this point - but even in her own home, she was constantly scanning, taking everything in. That was a deadly combination with the lack of morals and excitement for dark magic.

“What is this? What's happened, Cissy?” Draco could see the exact moment her eyes zeroed in on Granger.

“But surely,” she said quietly, "this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?"

“Yes, yes, it's Granger! And beside her, we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!”

“Potter?” his aunt shrieked. Normally she would have berated his father for being drunk in the mid-afternoon, but she was too excited as well. “Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!”

He could see Aunt Bella made a move for her left arm in the mirror that hung above the fireplace, and Draco closed his own eyes, mentally preparing for whatever curse would catch him this afternoon. As he heard arguing behind him, he wondered if the Dark Lord would use the normal curses, or if he had invented something more exciting for the week. There was no one for him to manipulate Draco with emotionally any longer - unless you counted his parents - but he doubted that the Dark Lord wanted to lose support of one of his biggest followers any more than he already had.

He futilely wondered what, if anything, could ever divert his father from this fanaticism. But he supposed if the man had been following the Dark Lord’s orders since before he himself was born, it was unlikely much would stop him now.

Draco was watching the portrait doze lightly, _instead of history_ , he thought to himself. When people would ask in twenty years where he was when the Resistance fell, he would say he was in the room. _Yes, I was there_ , he imagined himself telling people. _I was there watching Armand Malfoy, inventor of the cheering charm, take a fucking nap in his frame_.

But things were not that simple. Things were never that simple. He heard his aunt scream a stunning spell and whirled around just in time to see her to repeat the action. The group of four sweaty men who had dragged the prisoners into their home lay stunned, and his aunt was poised over the werewolf. In her hand was a silver sword. _That was new._

“Where did you find this sword?” his aunt yelled. Draco could see the spit fly from her lips as magic crackled in her hair. He did not envy the werewolf and could do nothing but watch with wide eyes as his aunt continued to scream. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!”

Greyback snarled back ferociously, “It was in their tent! Release me, I say!”

Bellatrix took a step back, waving her wand. Her eyes darted around the room, finally meeting his own. She beckoned him with a finger before pointing to the stunned Snatchers. He gave his head a small shake, knowing exactly what she was going to ask, and she gave him a sick smile.

“Move this scum outside, and if you haven't got the _guts_ to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me,” she demanded. He felt his hackles raise at the taunt, but it was his mother who was coming to his defense. He knew she hated that he was a killer, but there was nothing she could do when the Dark Lord demanded it. The Dark Lord continually reminded her that she had raised a killer. But this was not him, this was her sister.

“Don't you dare speak to Draco like that!”

Bellatrix’s dark eyes fell on her sister as she screamed, “Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!”

Draco knew his mother had not yet grasped the severity of the situation, and his father was too far removed from sobriety to comprehend. If Potter had been in the Lestrange Vault, who knew what else they had managed to seal. Who knew what other treasures that Dark Lord had hid amongst the gold there? There was obviously something that she knew of, otherwise the situation wouldn’t have been so dire.

Draco did what he had been commanded, taking his wand and levitating the other dirty men out to the courtyard before debating killing them himself for a moment. He knew if he didn’t, his aunt would belittle him that evening. She would laugh at his skills as a man, which wasn’t the problem. The problem would be if she told their master of his unwillingness to kill that seemed to persist, despite the number of times he had been forced to murder others in front of anyone the Dark Lord could think of.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before deciding to bind the men. _In case we need more information_ , he thought, as he cast the spells. The unconscious men’s heads moved as if they were ragdolls, and Draco wondered if any of them were already dead. He never knew with his aunt. He shook off the thoughts, walking at a leisurely pace back towards the parlour where he could hear screaming.

The scene he walked into was not the one he had left.

He could hear a faint yelling from the cellar, but his eyes focused in horror on the scene in front of him. He first noticed his mother’s averted eyes, and his father looking on with some sort of bloodlust. But that didn’t prepare him to see his classmate - at one point, he would have potentially said his enemy - bleeding out on his floor.

“Where did you get it?” his aunt whispered, essentially crawling on top of the sobbing girl. His ex-classmate was on the ground, hands bound at her sides with some invisible curse as his aunt dragged her wand down the girl’s body. Granger yelped as a small jet of yellow light left the wand, before Bellatrix jumped backwards. He could see Granger’s body convulse, and he felt the urge to empty his stomach’s contents on the floor.

“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword?” his aunt’s whisper had roared to a scream. “Where?”

“We found it!” Granger sobbed. Bellatrix gave a feral smile before shooting a nonverbal red spell, _Crucio_ , at the girl who let out a high-pitched scream. Draco grit his teeth, knowing from experience that it would only get worse as his aunt began to speak the curses out loud. “We found it, please!”

His aunt tutted her tongue, turning away from her prey.

“You know what happens to little lying mudbloods?” she asked. Granger sobbed in response and Draco saw his mother flinch out of the corner of his eye. “ _Crucio_.”

Draco’s eyes were fixed on Granger as her body jerked on the floor, another horrible shriek coming from her mouth.

“You're a lying, filthy mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts!” Aunt Bellatrix was feral, her eyes wild and her wand swinging carelessly. “Tell the truth, tell the truth!”

Granger screamed again and Draco averted his eyes. His fingers traced his wand, tucked into his pocket, but he knew any resistance on his part would be suicide. Both for him and for the girl on the ground.

“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

Another bloodcurdling scream.

“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!”

Draco could see Granger’s eyes roll back in her head, her scream weaker this time. His mother started forward, hand outstretched to her sister, only to be pulled back against his father. He and his father made worried eye contact, concurred that Bellatrix’s need for power would spin this situation out of control.

“Bella, information!” his father reminded quietly.

Bellatrix’s eyes snapped to the older Malfoy, and her face slackened into another sickening smile.

“How did you get into my vault?” Bellatrix prompted, shooting a small spell at Granger that caused her to groan. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?”

Granger shook her head as frantically as she could with her hands still affixed to the floor. “We only met him tonight! We've never been inside your vault.... It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!”

Draco paused. Obviously, the girl was lying, though he wasn’t likely to point it out at the moment. He allowed himself to wonder why for a moment, but Aunt Bella was just as astute as he was.

“A copy?” she screeched, sensing the lie as well. “Oh, a likely story!”

Granger shuddered slightly, seeming to fight for consciousness.

It was his father who intervened this time. “But we can find out easily!” he said. “Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!”

Draco had no want to go face his other classmates downstairs, but knew he had no choice. As he drew himself to his full height to leave the room, his eyes finally met Granger’s once more. She said nothing, but as he stared at her tearstained face, he knew she was asking him to help.

He felt her in his mind before he heard her.

_Please._

Draco could sense her desperation and feel her fear, but he knew there was nothing he could do in that moment. Instead, he pushed her from his mind, noting the exact moment she felt it happen as her body sagged against the floor even more.

He did not allow himself to feel bad as he strode down the stairs. He had done enough for them today.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione knew that Draco Malfoy wasn’t going to help her. At least, that was what she tried to convince herself between the bursts of pain that shot through her nervous system. She could feel the cold of the floor through the back of her sweater as her mind reeled from the pain that continually pulsed in her limp limbs.

Draco Malfoy was a rotten prick and always had been.

Hermione tried to focus on the anger as his insane aunt sent another curse her way, causing a small moan to slip through her lips. She attempted to focus on that feeling - the _anger,_ she reminded herself, holding the world close _-_ was something to anchor her to herself as she slowly felt her mind slipping. She knew what the curse could do and knew to combat it she had to tie herself to something.

Draco Malfoy had called her a mudblood for years. She thought of the feeling of her fist crunching into his pointy nose. She thought of the surge of anger the first time she had thought Buckbeak had been killed. Him taunting Professor Lupin. Him making fun of her hair. The fight on the Quidditch pitch. Him standing alongside Professor Umbridge.

The reel of Draco Malfoy’s most prickish moments gave her somewhere else to place her mind. Ironic, she thought, that those moments were saving her. She needed to focus on something, anything, other than the absolute fire that was ripping through her veins.

She felt, rather than heard, her own throat make another low groaning sound and she shut her eyes, as if that could block out the pain. Again, she could feel her back pressed against the cold wooden floor of the Malfoy’s sitting room through her thin sweater. She felt grateful for the floor, another symbol that she was still present in her own mind. Anger and the floor were all that were keeping her grounded in that moment.

She couldn’t tell how quickly time was passing, but suddenly Malfoy’s blonde head was back in the room. She hadn’t noticed him enter, too focused on the painful curses that would shoot from Bellatrix’s wand on occasion. Her vision went black momentarily, and she tried to focus on the older witch, but she knew she was slipping from consciousness. 

Hermione could see Bellatrix’s lips moving, saying something that was inaudible over the roar in her ears, before they curved upward in her signature feral smile. The wand slashed and Hermione flinched, ready for the pain but none came. Instead, she saw as she turned her head slightly, the goblin lay bleeding on the floor as well.

Bellatrix’s smile didn’t fade as she lifted her black robes, pressing her finger against the Dark Mark to call Voldemort to Malfoy Manor. For a moment, no one made a sound, and Hermione fought to bring her head back above the waves. Trying to remind herself how to breathe, she took in a gulp of air.

It was too soon that Bellatrix’s dark eyes were focused on Hermione once more. She tried in vain to struggle out of the way but found she could hardly move her limbs. While she was no longer bound to the floor, she wasn’t going anywhere.

The ferocious smile was back.

“I think,” said Bellatrix's voice, “we can dispose of the mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.”

Hermione finally let the tears fall as she saw the werewolf take a step towards where she lay at Bellatrix’s feet before all hell broke loose.

“No!” came a yell, as Ron burst into the room, disarming Bellatrix. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, her body unable to do anything else but hope. She could sense the commotion around her, and all she wanted to be was helpful.

To protect Harry and Ron.

But her limbs were too heavy to move and she felt as if she was drowning. She struggled, but even as her eyes reopened the world around her was dark. Everything around her spun as she felt someone yank her body flush against theirs. She felt her own head lull to the side, praying it was Harry or Ron.

Her prayers were to no avail, as the figure pressed something sharp into her throat.

“Stop or she dies,” she heard Bellatrix say from behind her. “Drop your wands. Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

Hermione tried in vain to tell the boys to let her go - to keep fighting and get out of the Manor, but she couldn’t figure out how to make her voice work. Her eyes opened a sliver, and she met Harry’s worried gaze. The moment they made eye contact she could see his body sag in relief as he dropped his wand. Ron’s wand clattered to the floor as well, the sound echoing around the massive room. Hermione locked eyes with Harry as the youngest Malfoy scrambled in front of her two best friends to pick up their stolen weapons.

“Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again while Greyback takes care of Miss mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight.”

A rumble came from above and the entire room seemed to shake. Hermione felt herself shoved the floor as a shower of diamonds and glass came crashing down around her. In any other moment, she would have called the sight beautiful as a thousand tiny shards sparkled in the dim light before ripping across her skin.

She no longer had the strength to scream, but a puff of air escaped her lips as she saw the blood slowly start to trickle down her arms. She could see a hand outstretched towards her, but her eyes rolled backwards and suddenly the world went silent.

* * *

She woke to a wand pressed between her eyes.

“If you dare to move,” a disembodied voice said from above her, “I will curse you so hard that your brain comes out of your ears.”

Hermione couldn’t respond. The fire was still ripping through her supine body. She could feel something around her ankle, anchoring her to the floor, but couldn’t focus on that feeling. Every movement, every breath, was pure agony. She closed her eyes, feeling hot tears run down her face. She had never felt anything like this before. She knew that people went mad from the cruciatus, but she had never imagined the level of continuous agony that it would leave her body in.

Someone screamed in the background and Hermione forced herself to take deep breaths; anything to bring her back to this world.

Slowly, the fog began to clear. A hand gripped her jaw roughly, and a bitter potion was shoved into her mouth, as another scream came from somewhere beyond her feet. Not a scream, she realized, but a yell.

Hermione thought of Harry and Ron, forcing her eyes open against the bright light. She couldn’t feel them. She was so used to their presence and they were decidedly not there. Her open eyes saw feet scrambling around the room, and she didn’t recognize their shoes either.

The fear was still present, but so was the gratefulness. Harry and Ron could do the rest without her. She had gotten them so close, but if the two of them had escaped, there was still a chance. Not a chance for her personally, but a chance that the rest of the muggleborn population wouldn’t be destroyed. A chance for girls like her to attend Hogwarts in the future and-

“Sit up, mudblood,” someone commanded. Hermione attempted to blink and follow the direction, but a hand was in her hair, yanking her to a sitting position. She screamed in pain.

“Bella!”

Hermione saw Bellatrix’s face inches from her own and felt the woman’s hot breath on her face.

“Where did they go, you little _bitch_ ,” the older woman hissed into her face, tugging harder at Hermione’s curls. She let out another small yelp, unable to stop the tears cascading down her cheeks. She tried to shake her head to indicate she didn’t know, but the hand in her hair was holding her too tightly. She attempted to stretch with the arm as it pulled her head further back, but her aching muscles wouldn’t let her. Instead, she screamed again, unable to stop herself as the pain ripped down her spine.

“Where is your meet up location if you get separated?” Bellatrix’s voice was escalating to a scream, “Where would they go!”

She felt the slap ignite her cheek, her head slamming into the wooden arm of the couch. She could feel hot blood begin to trickle down her forehead as she looked up at the older woman, unable to say anything. She felt infinitely glad that she had never made a full plan, having never planned to be separated from Ron and Harry for more than a few moments.

Then came the probing. Hermione felt the dark haired witch’s mind press into her own and closed her eyes - anything to put some distance between them - but heard Bellatrix rasp, “Look at me!”

_The tent._

_Ron’s return._

_Ron leaving._

_The wedding._

Bellatrix let Hermione’s hair go, leaving her to fall backwards into the couch.

“She doesn’t know,” the older witch spat, giving Hermione a moment to catch her breath and look around. The Malfoy’s were huddled in a corner, Mrs. Malfoy seeming to push a potion down her husband’s throat as their son looked anywhere but at her. The werewolf was still in the other corner, but a new body - Peter Pettigrew, she recognized - was lying face down on the floor, seemingly dead if the odd angles of his limbs were anything to judge by.

She was still sitting among chandelier pieces, but the rest of the giant structure had been shoved into a hasty pile, sparkling from inside the dark fireplace.

Bellatrix let out another scream, whirling to face her other family members.

“He will never forgive us,” the wild witch whispered, her eyes widening as she turned to face Greyback. “ _You_ let those boys get away!”

The werewolf cackled, “If you think you’re going to get out of this by placing the blame on _me_ you must be out of your mind.” He leaned against the wall, staring at his dirty fingernails. “You were the one who disposed of my crew, we could’ve helped you if you weren’t so stuck up. Bitch.”

Bellatrix let out a snarl, pointing her gnarled wand towards the werewolf once more. He bared his teeth, pointing his own wand back in her face before the room seemed to drop in temperature. The already dark room darkened further, and then He was standing there.

Voldemort.

Hermione had never seen the man in person before, having been in too much pain at the Department on Mysteries, but she had heard Harry and Ron’s hushed retellings. While he was obviously visually altered, she was surprised by the man in front of her. His face looking strangely human with pale white skin glowing in the darkened room. His eyes glinted red momentarily, before returning to their normal dark color. She could feel the anger rolling off of him, polluting the room.

A posse of other Death Eaters, she assumed, were also present. Dark robes billowed all around her, and she knew that any attempt at escape, even had she been able to move, would have been futile. Instead, Hermione swallowed, attempting to bring moisture to her dry throat as the occupants in the room, sans Mrs. Malfoy who merely inclined her head, fell to their knees with their own heads bowed.

“I thought I was coming,” Voldemort rasped, his voice low and gravely, sending chills down Hermione’s spine. “To find Harry Potter.”

The room went silent.

“Instead,” he continued, his eyes turning towards Hermione. She could feel his mind press against her own, and then her thoughts were flashing behind her eyes. “All we have is this little mudblood.”

Hermione gasped at the sheer force he was using to sort through her memories, focusing on letting her mind go as blank as possible. He was looking for moments with Harry; she could tell he was looking for something specific but was unable to discern what. She concentrated on those passing moments, attempting to forget anything else, anything useful that would give Harry’s mission away.

She felt him linger through her previous moments in Malfoy Manor, and saw the corner of his mouth twitch up slightly as she winced, reliving the torture that she could still feel in her body. A semblance of a smile came across his face as she rewatched Malfoy leave her behind, the anger coursing through her veins once more.

“She doesn’t like you very much, Draco,” he said, almost laughing. “Nor you, Antonin.”

So, Antonin Dolohov was there as well. She could see a man behind Voldemort’s left shoulder wince from under his hood and felt a vicious stab of achievement for her memory charm on the older man. She still felt unable to move her body, but the scar along her side that had been inflicted under his wand tingled slightly.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Malfoy give a terse smile that looked more like a grimace.

 _Fuck you_ , she thought. There was another flash of memories, too quick this time for her to identify, before she felt Voldemort withdraw from her mind with a distasteful look on his face.

“My Lord,” came Bellatrix’s voice from behind Hermione, now sickly sweet. She stopped as the man’s face hardened, and he drew his wand. Hermione watched it warily, bracing herself for the flash of green light that would end it all. Instead, he took a sweeping step towards Hermione and looked down at her.

“Can you stand up?” Voldemort asked, his raspy voice surprisingly kind. She felt her body ache at the thought, but only stared up at the older wizard defiantly. She heard Bellatrix snarl something, but she was stopped with a quick glare from her master.

“I asked you a question, mudblood,” he said again, bending slightly to press his wand under her chin. Self-preservation thrown out of the window, she merely glared before she felt words slip through her lips.

“Fuck you.”

Voldemort looked almost proud for a moment, and then everything was on fire.

She felt the pain before she heard him mutter _Crucio_. A disembodied scream could be heard in the room, and she realized it was her own voice as her throat began to ache. This curse was worse than any of the ones before. This curse made her wish for death, and when she opened her eyes again, she was lying with her side pressed into the cold floor of Malfoy Manor with no concept of how long she had been placed under the curse. She gasped for air, expecting to see Voldemort above her, but his feet had moved on.

She heard him tut in his throat.

“Yet again, I have been let down by the Malfoy family,” 

“My Lord,” came Lucius Malfoy’s shaking voice. “We have served you loyally for years. We have given our home to your cause. My family has given our _all_ to your cause.”

“Not,” Voldemort interjected, “your all. Your wife remains unmarked. Your son, even after his failures, he remains _alive_.”

Narcissa Malfoy gasped quietly.

“Our dear, weak, Mrs. Malfoy,” Voldemort said. Hermione raised her eyes slightly, in time to see Voldemort trace his wand across Draco Malfoy’s face, her classmate standing stoically. She could see the fear in his eyes only for a brief moment, before they returned to a neutral stormy gray.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Voldemort began again, “you are so unwilling to sacrifice your only heir for the cause. I wonder if we could make him more useful. Perhaps we could let him spend the next week with our dear friend Fenrir.”

Another inhale of air from Narcissa Malfoy, but Voldemort continued on.

“We can keep your pure line intact, with only a small reminder of what happens when you fail the Dark Lord. Draco, my boy, what do you think of that plan?”

Hermione could read nothing on his face as Draco Malfoy bowed his head, “If that is what you desire, My Lord.”

“So dutiful!” Voldemort cried, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Hermione felt her consciousness start to wane but was almost certain she saw Malfoy’s eyes dart towards her.

“My Lord-” Bellatrix tried again, causing Voldemort to turn towards her, his robes billowing.

“Silence, my dear Bella,” he said, small sparks shooting from the tip of his wand. “Or I will silence you myself.” Hermione heard the witch huff indignantly, but her gaze was acutely focused on the youngest Malfoy as Voldemort turned to face him once more. He did not spare her another look.

“My dear Draco, so dutiful, so willing to serve,” Voldemort drawled. “We wouldn’t want to waste you yet, my boy.”

Malfoy jerked his head in assent, glancing at the werewolf who seemed to be inching closer, a smile on his face.

“Indeed,” Voldemort seemed to say to himself, turning away from the Malfoy family. “There is much to be decided with this hand we have been dealt. _Crucio_.”

Draco Malfoy dropped to his knees, the noise of his body hitting the wooden floor echoing around the room. She could see his teeth grit together, only letting out a low groan. Hermione wondered how many times he must have been placed under the curse to respond with such ease. She could still feel the effects of the curse dragging her towards unconsciousness. 

“ _Crucio_ ,” she heard Voldemort say again, watching as father joined his son on the floor, leaving Mrs. Malfoy standing alone. Her blonde hair was frazzled, but Hermione was amazed by the amount of poise she showed in that moment, as she stood toe to toe with Voldemort, facing the world’s darkest wizard.

“Mrs. Malfoy, you have been such a gracious host, to offer us your husband’s ancestral home,” she heard Voldemort say. A few chuckles came from the collected Death Eaters as Narcissa Malfoy’s face tensed.

“Of course, My Lord.”

“And so, what would be one more guest? The mudblood could stay here until further needed. She would be under the direct watch of your son, who will not be returning to school.”

Voldemort paused, and Narcissa Malfoy nodded. Hermione’s mind raced at the implications of what seemed to be becoming an extended stay at Malfoy Manor. She knew her mind held secrets, but wasn’t sure how much Voldemort already knew, and what level of usefulness she would be providing to the Death Eaters.

Greyback let out a disappointed noise, and Hermione’s stomach sunk. To be kept alive only for the pleasure of Death Eaters could mean a myriad of things, she realized, but Voldemort was speaking once more, and her brain was too foggy to follow both trains of thought at the same time.

“I will tolerate no further failures from your house, Mrs. Malfoy,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. Narcissa Malfoy nodded politely once more as Voldemort looked down at the two Malfoy men panting on the floor. “And we have not yet finished discussing the failures from this day.”

Voldemort turned once more, beckoning Bellatrix towards him with a crooked finger. Hermione only watched her dark books as they stepped in front of her face. She heard the woman gasp and realized that Voldemort was watching the events unfold through her eyes.

There was another pregnant pause in the silent room before the man spoke again.

“So many moments for redemption, and so many moments of failure,” he snarled. “ _Crucio._ ”

Bellatrix stood, gnashing her teeth together as the curse ripped through her body. Hermione felt all the more fear of the witch, watching the scene unfold as the other woman merely clenched her hands at the curse that had left her essentially immobile. Hermione attempted to move, drawing Voldemort’s eyes back to her as her fingers scrambled for purchase against the wooden floor.

“More, mudblood? _Crucio._ ”

Hermione’s vision went black.

She opened her eyes to laughter and Voldemort’s cold voice.

“My dear Bella, if the little bitch is going to be staying here, we should surely add an indication of what she is.”

Bellatrix smiled that feral smile again, a knife once again appearing in her hand as she crouched down besides Hermione. Her body ached as she tried to pull herself away from the older witch, as she felt cold fingers close around her arm, yanking her sweater up.

“Please,” Hermione tried to beg, spots dancing across her vision. In turn, she received a slap that sent her cheek careening into the wooden floor. She tried with all of her might to pull herself away, but her body refused to cooperate. Suddenly, she was much more focused on her left arm, as the knife plunged into her pale flesh.

She felt herself scream again. It was all too much. There would be no stay at Malfoy Manor, because there was no way that this pain could end in any other way besides death.

“That’s only one, girly, seven to go.”

She could hear someone speaking and laughter in the background, but all she could think of was the burning in her arm as she watched Bellatrix smile, their faces inches apart.

Another slash.

Another scream was ripped from her throat.

She felt herself begging, the words coming as breathy rasps from her dry throat.

_Please no. Please please please please._

The words were nothing more than a jumble inside her mind as they started to lose all meaning.

Suddenly she was allowed to clutch her arm to her chest, cradling it in her other hand as she sobbed.

She was brought back to reality as Voldemort clapped his hands together, almost gleefully. Hermione was reminded of a small child being rewarded or stumbling across their presents on Christmas morning.

“I have made up my mind.”

Hermione prayed for death, tears dripping down her face.

“One for one, it is only fair,” the man said. “Two of the three of the _Golden Trio_ escaped from here today, and Malfoy family, two of three of you will have the same fate. I refuse to continue to be forced to tolerate your multiple failures.”

“My Lord-” Lucius Malfoy began, taking a small step forward, bringing himself in front of his wife.

“Ah excellent,” exclaimed Voldemort, twirling his wand. “A volunteer. _Avada Kedavra._ ”

There was a flash of green.

Narcissa Malfoy screamed, but Lucius Malfoy’s body was already on the floor. The sickening thud reverberated, shaking her body as she stared into the eyes of the Malfoy patriarch. Hermione could see the once elegant witch drop to her knees beside her now late husband, her hands frantic on his robes. Voldemort laughed spitefully, turning away from the scene unfolding in front of him.

Hermione chanced a glance at Draco Malfoy - the last standing member of his family - who had gone ashen. She could see the shock in his face, his jaw hanging slack.

Hermione felt her stomach give up, aching painfully. She tasted acid, using all of her remaining effort to turn her head to the side as the meager meals she had eaten for the past day came rushing back up her throat and down her cheek.

And then finally, _finally_ , the world went blissfully black.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione had never been one to dream.

There were obviously exceptions - she had a vivid memory of waking up with her face covered in tears before her first set of end-of-year exams as a first year - but overall, dreams did not come easily. Back at Hogwarts, she remembered the nights when Parvati would wake up the room mumbling, and eventually, screaming and Lavender would slide into the other girl’s bed and they would whisper until the morning, neither of them sleeping again. On those nights, Hermione would stare at the ceiling of her four-poster, allowing tears to fall as she wondered what she had done to piss off the girls in her dorm, as she thought about the isolation she felt in the wizarding world.

Because even if she had dreamed, Hermione was certainly not close enough with her dorm mates for that type of loving treatment. There would have been no warm body who would come to snuggle beside her at night to whisper back and forth. No hands bringing her a glass of warm tea. She knew her place among the girls of Gryffindor.

Occasionally she would wake with a feeling from the night before. A casual, _What did Harry and I fight about yesterday?_ or, _Why did I fail that exam?_ would bounce around in her head as she woke in the morning, only to for her to realize as she brushed her teeth or hair that at some point in the evening her brain must have come up with such a scenario. Once realized, her logical mind would dismiss the thought, and she would amble down to breakfast to meet her friends with no worries about the feeling of dread that she had woken with.

She could feel her morning dread as her eyes stayed heavy, even as she attempted to open them. The feeling remained as she thought back to her previous moments, only coming up with fragmented thoughts of pain and terror. _Harry and Ron_ , her brain chanted, unable to grasp anything else. She lay there, terrified in the darkness until she heard someone else speak.

“I can tell you’re awake,” came a voice from far away. She tried to respond, to open her eyes, but her attempts were unsuccessful. “You’ve got about twenty potions in your system; you won’t be truly awake for a while. Try to sleep.”

Hermione struggled against whatever healing magic was in her veins, feeling her arms move slightly. Somewhere outside of her consciousness, cool hands pressed her body backwards into whatever she was laying on. She felt herself fall back into an ocean, her face just barely staying above the water as she struggled to draw breath.

“I’m not fucking playing. You’ve had enough seizures. Go back to sleep.”

Her brain grabbed the word seizures, allowing the word to bounce around in her skull. Seizures were serious. _Serious seizures. Serious seizures. Serious seizures._

She faded once more.

* * *

The second time she woke, the feeling of dread remained, pressing heavy on her chest as she her eyes fluttered open. She gasped, blinded by the light, her eyes snapping shut at the pain. When she tested them again, opening them slowly, she was surprised at her surroundings.

Dark paneled wood made up the room, but the tall ceilings, giant mirror, and large windows kept the room feeling airy. She caught a look of herself, pale and undernourished with ratty hair, in the mirror at the foot of the bed, but filed that away for later. A chandelier made of some sort of dark crystals hung above her feet, and across from the bed was a large painting of some sort of prairie landscape. Her eyes swept the room, attempting to take it all in.

Again, she felt surprise at the bed itself, all neutral tans and greens, providing a light island against the dark wood floor. She looked to her right, where a potions desk sat, something bubbling lightly.

The room screamed expensive, from the silky sheets against her skin to the chandelier above her feet. There was no way she was anywhere else, this had to be Malfoy Manor.

She took a deep breath, pulling her hands from below the blankets, surprised at her body’s lack of pain as the memories of - yesterday? Two days ago? - came rushing back. There was too much to focus on, but she was immediately suspicious of the lack of security with her current position. Hermione figured it wouldn’t last, they most likely thought she was still asleep and would be for a while, so she had to move quickly.

She shoved the blankets off of herself, not daring to think about why and how she was now wearing a nightgown instead of her jeans and sweater. With the large movement, she felt the soreness in her arms come flooding back, and she bit her bottom lip to avoid crying out in pain. Steadying herself, she swung her legs over the side of the bed one at a time, before dropping off the edge of the bed and onto her feet.

She collapsed on the floor in a heap, agony in her veins. She yelped in pain, struggling in an attempt to pull herself to her feet to no avail. Moments after her body hit the ground heavily, a door she hadn’t noticed before swung open, revealing Draco Malfoy.

He looked terrible.

He had looked bad before, but now his torment was visible in everything he did. The deep circles under his eyes made his face look more sunken than usual, and his pale skin looked sallow and almost jaundiced. He wore a set of expensive looking black robes, but they were obviously too big for him, hanging limply off of his too thin body as he frowned down at her.

“Well, the moment of truth comes and you’re at my feet, where you belong,” he spat, his voice too shaky to be truly cruel as he carried on. “Can the little mudblood even remember her own name?”

Hermione glared up at him, unable to pull her throbbing body to her feet.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” she managed to grit out, before pulling herself to her knees with a hiss of pain.

He merely rolled his eyes, brandishing his wand at her. She flinched backwards, and his brows raised slightly. They sat for a moment, eyes locked, before Malfoy spoke again.

“If I wanted to kill you, I’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

Hermione grimaced. “Maybe you’re like your aunt and like to play with your food,” she finally rasped, throat burning.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, twitching his wand slightly to the side as if to ask her permission to proceed.

Hermione bared her teeth at him but nodded as she allowed him to step closer and use the wand to levitate her back into the bed, where the covers immediately pulled themselves up and over her body. Their eyes locked again before Malfoy took a few uncertain steps into the room, waving his wand so that something medical sprung into the air. Hermione recognized a portion of the charm, but not all of it, as her heartbeat floated in front of her face.

“Well, you’re alive,” was all Malfoy said, waving his wand so that the lights from his wand dropped back into her chest.

“Malfoy-” Hermione started, unsure of what their new, tentative relationship meant. He had given her no impression that he liked her, but he was keeping her alive and hadn’t cursed her, which meant something. It had to mean something.

“I don’t want your sympathy,” he interrupted, voice cold, before she started. “Your position here is much more precarious than my own.”

Hermione tried to wet her lips with her tongue, feeling the rasp in her throat. Malfoy immediately summoned a glass of water that flew directly to her shaking hands. She grasped the cup in both hands, trembling as she lifted it to her lips while Malfoy watched with a sneer on his face.

“What is my position here?” Hermione finally asked, letting the now empty glass rest on the bed. Malfoy hadn’t made any moves closer to her bedside, instead, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Hermione knew that standing face-to-face he would still tower over her, but presently he looked small and sad. Like a lost child.

“You are a prisoner of the Dark Lord in Malfoy Manor,” he informed her, finally moving around the bed and towards the potions desk, where he used his wand to gently stir the bubbling cauldron. “You are being kept here until needed further.”

Hermione ignored the small shiver that ran down her spine, merely turning her head to face her once-classmate as he steadfastly refused to meet her eyes. A myriad of questions bounced around in her head, but she was unsure of which Malfoy would answer. This cold man was incredibly dissimilar from the taunting young boy she had known at Hogwarts. She was sure any teasing action on her part would be met with a cold sneer, none of the taunting rhymes he used to come up with as a child.

“Why am I being kept here? Doesn’t your family have some sort of ancient prison to keep me in?”

She would have sworn that even just seeing his side profile that Malfoy’s lips tilted up slightly, but he answered in the same detached voice.

“Your friends proved that our security in the cellar was lacking. Instead, you are tied to the wards and to me personally, so don’t try to escape.”

Hermione had never heard of such a thing, but she knew she was sorely inadequate in her knowledge of ancient pureblood homes. There were very few books published on the passing on of the ancient traditions of pureblood wizards, likely purposefully. “What does that even mean?”

“It means, Granger,” Malfoy said, finally turning to face her, “that your stupid thoughts of escape are futile. I have personally modified the Manor’s wards so that you will not be able to leave the property, and that little anklet on your foot will see to that. You are unable to leave the grounds and more importantly, you are unable to raise a hand to any of the other inhabitants here.”

Her brain worked frantically to catalogue all that Malfoy told her. Gray eyes locked on hazel as they both sized the other up. When she looked for the feeling, Hermione could feel the pulse of magic from something that was tied around her ankle, and finally accepted that Malfoy was potentially not lying. But she would explore that later, when she could manage to get around on her own.

“That’s powerful magic,” she finally said tentatively.

Malfoy sneered. “I’m a powerful wizard.”

Hermione inclined her head slightly. She knew that he had always been close to the top of their year, last year notwithstanding. He had been a good wizard, though she had always managed to best him, though she had likely poured hundreds of more hours into their classes. Though, he had almost matched her hours in the library, though they had never spoken while both there alone.

“So, what?” she asked, “I’m just meant to stay here and do nothing? We’re on indefinite hols at the request of You-Know-Who?”

Malfoy snorted and shrugged, turning back to his potions desk. “If that is how you would like to think of it, so be it.”

Hermione could feel her temper flaring at Malfoy’s casual demeanor, and ignoring the pain, she pushed herself to a seated position in the large bed.

“Malfoy, we can’t just _sit_ here,” she finally pleaded, her voice turning into a whine at the end. Malfoy did not react to her, only reaching down to grab a handful of something and toss it into his potion. She let him focus on it for a few moments before calling out his name sharply.

As if he had all the time in the world, Malfoy made a casual note on a parchment on the potions bench before turning to face Hermione once more.

“Granger, I do not think you understand the position that you find yourself in,” he said, voice low. He took the few steps towards her bed, towering over. She shrank back into the pillows, even as she told herself not to be afraid.

“You, little mudblood-”

“Stop using that word,” Hermione hissed. But Malfoy continued as if uninterrupted.

“-should consider yourself lucky. You get to sit here in a gilded cage, protected from all of the dark forces that run around this house. You may be locked in this room, but at least you are not tied up in the basement, and at least you are _alive._ My… others cannot say the same.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, looking at the blonde man.

“Malfoy,” she began, before amending her words. “Draco, I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t bring much sympathy for the thought of the death of his father himself. Had anyone asked her, she would likely have said the world was better off with Lucius Malfoy running around murdering muggleborns and luring first year Gryffindors down into the chamber of secrets, but faced with his son, obviously in the depths of grief, she couldn’t help but feel sympathetic. She had known Malfoy for years, and until last year, she would have never called him evil. She knew he was spoiled and arrogant, a prejudiced prick if she had ever met one, but even as Harry had insisted over and over that he was a Death Eater, she had felt skeptical until the end. Obviously, she had been wrong, but looking at him now, so obviously on the verge of falling apart, she couldn’t help but feel sympathetic.

That didn’t erase the fact that she knew he was dangerous. She knew that he was versed in the unforgiveables, almost cursing Harry with one in that brawl in the bathroom. He had hurt Katie, and Madam Rosemerta, and had almost killed Dumbledore. He was reckless and dangerous, and she was certain that had only increased in the time where she had not interacted with him, but that did not stop her from feeling sorry that at seventeen, he had lost his father to the wand of a madman.

Malfoy scoffed again, and for a moment she thought he was either going to hit her or break down as his eyes flashed wildly. She could see the loss of control in his ashen face, but he did neither. Instead, she could see the Occulmency cover his eyes, turning them steely.

“You cannot leave these chambers until I am certain you will not cause harm for either of us. I will not have you upsetting my mother. You can lie here until you figure out how best to conduct yourself. Besides, you are not in any physical condition to be doing anything.”

Malfoy was ending the conversation; she was sure of it. For a moment, she was scared to be left alone in the giant room with nothing but his potions, though she was unsure of if having _Draco Malfoy_ watch over her was the better alternative. She watched him move for a moment, her eyes taking in his stiff actions before he brought a potion over to her.

“Here,” he said, pressing the vial into her hand, careful that their skin didn’t touch. She held it tightly in her clenched fist, looking at him for a further explanation. He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t take it if you don’t want, but then I won’t be here to help you tonight when the pain hits,” he said, his voice cruel. She still didn’t recognize the green color, but tilted it back into her mouth, choosing to trust him for a moment. He had nursed her back to health so far, and she couldn’t figure out what he would gain from doing so only to poison her now. The vial tasted of nothing, and she set it down besides the empty water glass, not trusting her arms to reach all the way to the nightstand. Malfoy nodded at her once more before turning to exit the room.

Hermione wasn’t ready to be alone and he had barely started answering her questions.

“Malfoy,” she started, preparing to ignore the glare he fixed her with, “please, I have so many questions.”

He let out a barking noise, and it took her a moment to register that it was a laugh.

“Deal with them yourself then,” he said.

“But…” she stuttered, unsure of exactly who the man standing before her truly was. The mood swings that he seemed to exhibit were exhausting. “You were nice to me.”

She knew she sounded naive, and she could see his face harden, teeth grinding together slightly.

“I was no nicer than I had to be,” he informed her curtly. “Your safety and preservation is directly tied to my own. Going forward, Zilly will be able to help you.”

At the sound of the name Zilly, a cowering house elf, appeared in the room with a pop.

“Zilly was called?” it said meekly, not glancing up from the floor. Hermione fixed Malfoy with a glare, but his gaze was focused on the elf.

“Zilly is to help if called,” he instructed, watching the elf bob its head. He nodded in response, turning to Hermione. “Do you think that giant brain of yours can remember to call for Zilly or are you too stupid to even remember that?”

For a moment Hermione felt like she was back at Hogwarts with his constant need to put her down and call her names, but she nodded her head, with her eyes narrowed at his treatment of the obviously terrified elf.

“Dismissed,” Malfoy said, and the elf popped away.

“But-” Hermione tried again

Malfoy cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“I don’t know what you expected here, Granger, but this is not a bed and breakfast. You are being kept alive for the Dark Lord, and if it were my choice, or the choice of anyone else here, you would have been killed by now. I am not here to be your friend. Just because my situation has changed does not make us allies.”

Malfoy paused to push his blonde hair off of his forehead with one hand in a movement that made Hermione’s heart ache for her friends.

“Malfoy, what does that _mean_?” She asked, begging for any semblance of an answer that would inform her knowledge to go forward in this obviously dangerous household. Malfoy met her eyes, and for a moment she thought he was going to confess to her. There was another long pause, but finally his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he shook his head slightly.

“My situation has changed. I’m hoping that you’re not too thick to understand that.”

Her brow furrowed, trying to phrase the most dangerous question. “Your loyalties?” she finally asked.

Malfoy scoffed, his lip curling as he looked down at her. He moved back towards his potions desk, closing a book and waving his wand over the whole bench before answering.

“My loyalties,” he said slowly, speaking to her as if she were a stupid child, “remain the same. I serve the Dark Lord fully, and you would do well to remember that.”

In that moment, he looked much older than his seventeen years. He paused to give her a disdainful once over.

“Granger, have Zilly help draw you a bath. It’s been three days and you’re starting to reek more than usual,” he paused, mouth open, flinching slightly as he drew in a short breath. He looked as if he wanted to finish his statement, but instead he gave her a curt nod and disapparating directly from her room with a crack.

Hermione gave it a moment, waiting to see if he would return, before lying her head back on her pillows to go over all of the information she had acquired.

Perhaps most importantly was the flinch. She hadn’t seen the exact motion before, but in combination with his urge to disapparate directly from her room, she figured it was a summons from Voldemort. So, that was what Malfoy was doing in addition to babysitting her in his home. She tried to think back to her interaction with the man but found her brain stubbornly foggy up until the moment that she made eye contact, if you could call it that, with the corpse of Malfoy’s father. His dead gray eyes would remain seared into her brain for the rest of her life. She shuddered.

Next, her _cage_ , as he had called it. She would have to test the limits of such, but Malfoy was a smart wizard, and they both now knew the consequences for his failure. Thus, she doubted she would find a hole that would put him and his mother in danger. She felt almost guilty at the thought of her potential escape but squashed those feelings. It wasn’t that she wanted Malfoy to die, but she knew that Harry and Ron would need her help much more.

There was too much to think about, and if that weren’t enough her body was starting to hurt, jolts of pain rushing through her limbs. And so, before calling Zilly, she finally gave herself full permission to relax, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

When Hermione opened her eyes again the room was dark. Her eyes darted around the the unfamiliar space, her mind making Death Eaters out of every piece of stationary furniture. It took her a moment to calm her breathing, but she was finally able to utter the elf’s name out loud.

She hated the crack as the servant appeared besides her bed. The elf said nothing, only bowing until its ears touched the floor, where it stayed.

“Um, Zilly?” Hermione asked, causing the elf to straighten to its full height. It snapped once, light flooding the room. No Death Eaters.

“Zilly, could you possibly help me bathe and then get something to eat?” Hermione wanted to talk to the elf further, but it cracked away. A door, not the door Malfoy had come through, opened and more light flooded into Hermione’s room. Beyond the doorway she could see the elf filling a bath, and she almost moaned at the thought of the warm water engulfing her body. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, testing them gingerly after her nap.

Hermione was slightly surprised at her ability to stand, just barely, on her own two legs. She thanked whatever potions Malfoy had given her, as she took slow, shuffling steps towards the bathroom, pausing to lean on the door. The elf gave her a surprised look before its giant eyes were back on the ground.

“Miss, the bath is almost ready.”

“Thank you, Zilly, that’s much appreciated,” Hermione said, hoping to engage the elf further. She gave the creature, who was looking anywhere but at her directly, another once over. “Zilly, you can call me Hermione, instead of Miss,” she offered.

The elf’s eyes went wide as she shook her head, ears flopping. “No, no,” was all that it muttered as it continued to add things to the running bathwater. Hermione frowned, taking a painful step towards the elf before ungracefully dropping to sit cross-legged beside the frantic creature. At her exhale of pain, Zilly spared her a glance.

“Does Miss need more potion?”

Hermione studied the elf for a moment as they made eye contact, the elf’s big brown eyes staring into her own.

“What potions has Mr. Malfoy been giving me?” she asked the elf, gingerly pushing her sweater off her shoulders to the floor. Zilly’s head bobbed once more as she snatched up the sweater and ran it to a hidden bin, returning with an armful of vials that seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

“Miss should take all of these before she is ready to sleep. Young Master made them,” was all the elf would say as it set the vials on the counter beside the bathtub. The elf offered Hermione a hand, which she waved off, using the side of the tub to pull herself to a standing position. She waited for the elf to avert its eyes, which it finally did as it bustled over to prepare towels for Hermione.

“Miss will call when she needs help after her bath,” the little elf muttered, before disappearing with a crack. Hermione sighed, glad to be alone as she gingerly stripped out of her worn clothes. She had been alternating through a few outfits while they had been on the run, and her current outfit reflected that. She wondered where her small bag had gone but resigned herself to the fact that is was likely gone, along with her wand. She took her time as she peeled the tattered jeans down her legs, looking over the bruises that littered her body. When she finally stood naked in the bathroom, she let herself meet her own eyes in the mirror.

The woman who met her gaze was one she had never seen before. She recognized her hazel eyes, staring back at her from deep within a pale sunken face. A dark bruise the most visible new facial feature, one that spread all the way down her neck. As she looked closer, she recognized the long finger purple bruises were made up of finger marks. The same dark purple finger marks marred her hipbone, and she flinched slightly as she ran her fingertips along the markings.

It was then, as she moved her left arm, that the red markings on the inside of her forearm caught her attention. She gingerly raised her arm, feeling her heartbeat pound in her ears, Voldemort’s voice competing to drown out the heavy thuds.

_An indication of what she is._

There on her arm, in what she had to assume was permanently cursed writing, was the word _MUDBLOOD_.

She felt her breath catch as the room began to spin dangerously around her. With a hand on the side of the tub, she gingerly lowered herself into the steaming water, barely feeling its scalding temperature. She lowered her arm underneath the bubbles, attempting to purge the word from her mind, unsure of why it was affecting her so strongly in that moment.

And then, Hermione Granger pulled her soapy knees to her chest, and sobbed.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco knew it was never a good sign to be called back after a mission. He could feel Theo’s wary eyes on him as he shuffled from the dining room of Lestrange Manor, leaving his closest friend alone with the man who controlled their lives. Draco refused to acknowledge the worried gaze, lest he drag the other man into some sort of punishment, if that was the way the night was going to go. Instead, Draco let his sight roam the darkened room, almost grateful for his aunt and Dolohov, who occupied the chairs adjacent to the Dark Lord.

 _Almost_.

“My boy,” the Dark Lord began, one pale hand gesturing for Draco to take the seat opposite him, “how are you finding your current arrangements?”

For a moment Draco’s mind went blank, unsure if the older man was asking after the status of the woman who was holed up in his home or after Draco and his mother, now without Lucius Malfoy. Draco wanted to discuss neither. He lifted his gaze from the worn table in front of him to meet the slitted eyes of his master.

“My Lord?” he asked, ignoring his aunt’s laugh.

“No, no, Draco,” the Dark Lord hissed, glee almost present in his voice. “How are you enjoying being the new head of the Malfoy family?”

Draco fought for control of his occlumency; he fought to keep his face neutral as he dipped his head once more. There was nothing to say to the monster who sat in front of him. There was no way the man would understand the horror of no longer having Lucius Malfoy around.

He knew what the Dark Lord valued, which was power and control, both of which he had granted Draco the moment his wand had struck down his father. Draco had thought of that moment - of the flash of green light - over and over, analyzing every second that had led up to those fateful moments.

But it wasn’t a fateful moment for the Dark Lord. Draco knew that in that moment the Dark Lord had been granting him a gift. Draco remained unsure of what had turned the tides to allow for such a _promotion_ , as his aunt had called it the next day, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He did not want to be beholden to anyone, especially over the fact that they had killed his father in cold blood.

His thoughts were interrupted as his aunt cackled once more, leaning over her forearms on the table.

“I told Cissa that Lucius would make her bloodline weak, you could have been a Black,” the older woman sing-songed, stopping as the Dark Lord raised his pale hand once more. Draco felt something drop into his eye and used the back of his hand to wipe the dripping cut on his forehead. He felt the blood smear across his forehead, which only intensified Bellatrix’s smile as she mouthed something he couldn’t understand.

“Well, Draco?” The Dark Lord prompted once more.

Draco said the safest phrase he could think of. “I am grateful. Thank you, My Lord.”

Voldemort threw his head back in a hearty laugh, clapping his hands together. Dolohov flinched slightly at the noise, turning his head slightly away from the two other figures who he shared the side of the table with.

“You have great potential, boy,” the Dark Lord began with a sigh, “it is truly a shame your father has stifled you for so long.”

Draco nodded his head, swallowing the bile in his throat.

“You can be a part of something great,” Voldemort’s hissing voice continued. “You now have the chance to save the Malfoy bloodline. Do not disappoint me again.”

Another nod of his head as Bellatrix let out another feral laugh.

“You are dismissed.”

Draco shoved the chair backwards, the heavy wooden legs scraping along the floor as he attempted to leave the room as fast as possible without alerting the other three adults to the fact that he was actively fleeing.

“Thank you, My Lord,” he murmured again as he slid the black chair back underneath the table. He felt his feet carry him to the door and his hand was on the doorknob when he was stopped by Dolohov’s voice.

“What of the mudblood?” came the other man’s thickly accented voice. Draco turned to face the three - the Dark Lord and his aunt both looked bored at the point of conversation, be he knew this was a key moment; he could feel them both assessing his response.

“Nothing to report, sir. She’s been asleep.” Draco could hear the curt tone in his voice and attempted to fix his face to show their master that he was grateful for another task. Grateful, instead of angered over the fact that he had to babysit his mudblood classmate.

Dolohov nodded, and for a moment Draco wondered if the other man had a vested interest in the girl that was currently asleep in his home, but he pushed the thought away. It would not serve him to wonder after the other man’s fascination with Hermione Granger.

When no one said anything else, Draco shoved through the door, and hearing it slam behind him he finally allowed himself to bring his hand to cover his mouth as his body dry heaved. There was not enough food in his body to produce any substance - that had happened earlier in the evening - but he took a moment to silently cough in the hallway. He took a few more shaky steps, making it into the empty foyer when someone interrupted him.

“Firewhiskey?” came Theo’s voice, as he slid out from the shadows, a flask in hand. Draco rolled his eyes at his friend, but accepted the flask from the other man, taking a large gulp. He enjoyed the way the liquid burned its way down his throat, nodding his thanks.

“We haven’t spoken since they captured Granger,” Theo prodded gently. Draco knew what the other man was asking, but he closed his eyes as his stomach turned over once more. He could feel the prickling feeling behind his eyes that had become all too familiar in recent days, but he ignored it as he turned to his classmate.

“Are you going back to Hogwarts?” Draco asked, ignoring Theo’s original question. The other man grimaced as he shook his head, shaggy hair flopping in his eyes.

“No, us _loyal_ followers are all staying back now. Can’t be beat by Draconis Malfoy,” Theo joked, gently pushing Draco’s shoulder with his own. Draco tried to force a laugh, but all that came from his throat was a dry choking sound. Theo’s brow furrowed as he uncapped the flask once more, pressing it into Draco’s hand and the blonde threw back another sip gratefully. The men stood in silence for a moment before Draco handed the flask back, significantly lighter.

“Funeral is in two days, if you want to come. We’re doing the full Malfoy vigil,” was all that he said as Theo took a swig of his own. His friend nodded, clapping a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“I’ll be there, obviously,” Theo said as Draco strode towards the large front door of the manor. “Draco, if you ever need anything you can always ask,” he attempted to continue, but his friend had already disapparated with a crack.

* * *

Despite the late hour, Draco’s first priority was his mother. He made his way through the Manor, providing tense head nods to the few Death Eaters who were still roaming the main halls until he reached the door he was looking for. Draco paused with his hand on the door of the guest room where he knew his mother had taken up residence, refusing to be in the room that she had previously shared with his father. Draco took a deep steadying breath before pushing the door open.

His mother was asleep, curled up in her dressing gown in a stiff looking armchair. Even though he was no longer a boy out with his friends, he knew she never slept well until he returned home. After his only overnight mission, Narcissa’s personal elf had scolded him, claiming that “Madame Malfoy hadn’t slept a wink while he was gone.” While he had glared at the elf at the time, he believed it, knowing his mother’s nervous tendencies.

And now, without his father, he didn’t want to think of the mental state of the woman who had dedicated her life to her husband and son.

He approached her quietly after pulling back the blue sheets of the guest bed, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her. Her eyes snapped open with a start, her wand immediately coming to rest under his chin. While he knew she could easily take his head off, he couldn’t help but be slightly proud at her quick reflexes.

“Mother, you have to sleep in a bed,” he coaxed softly, watching her red-rimmed, pale blue eyes water as she tucked her wand back into the dressing gown.

The older woman nodded mutely, drawing the fabric around her body and gracefully accepting her son’s outstretched hand. Her limp blonde hair framed her face, and for a moment Draco realized how much the past few days had aged his mother. She had remained largely silent since that day in the foyer, and a hot wave of anger swept through Draco.

There was a moment where he almost screamed at her; almost begged her to be there for him, but he knew that wouldn’t help anything. Still, he couldn’t help but feel resentful as he pulled the blankets back up over his mother’s shoulders, tucking her in as if she was his child.

Narcissa let out a small sigh, forcing the smallest of smiles to tilt her lips upwards, though the expression reached nowhere near her eyes, as she reached a hand up to cup Draco’s cheek. In any other situation he would have shaken off his mother, but for the first time in recent years, he allowed her to cradle the side of his face and pull him slightly closer to press her lips to his cheek.

“Love you, my son,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, before pulling back from him and rolling away. With a wave of her hand, the lights in her room dimmed, reminding Draco once more how powerful of a witch his mother truly was.

The anger - or was the feeling sadness? - was still burning in his gut as he wove his way back through the Manor towards the East Wing. Every footfall away from his mother caused the burning in his abdomen and eyes to intensify, causing him to push by one of the few remaining people in the hall with a forceful shoulder.

He had to hold back a snarl when he walked past the second dining room as he heard Greyback’s roaring voice carry through the halls of the Manor. He knew the late nights were often occupied by the Manor’s inhabitants raiding the Malfoy wine cellars and swapping war stories, something which he had rarely joined. But it was hearing the werewolf’s voice, knowing his father’s sacrificed body was displayed for vigil in another room that made him see red for the first time.

Unsure if it was the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream or the recent trauma, Draco couldn’t control himself as he let out an angry grunt, slamming his fist into the wall of the hallway. At the crash, he heard the voices go silent for a moment as he cradled his mangled fingers to his chest, breathing heavily, but standing deathly still. Long seconds ticked by, but no one came to the door, and instead the voices slowly picked back up as he savored the pain that was shooting up his arm.

Looking down at the blood that was soaking into his dark shirt from his newly damaged knuckles, never mind the blood that was already covering him from that night’s mission, he made a beeline back to his own quarters, cursing the placement of Granger in his adjoining rooms where his potions desk and supplies were.

Too drunk to attempt to heal himself with a wand, but too sober to go to bed with the coursing pain in his body, he stepped through his own bedroom and towards the door.

He quietly swung open the heavy wood that connected their bedrooms - the door that used to connect his _study_ and his bedroom. He frowned slightly at the light that met his eyes, meaning that she was likely awake and thus primed for a confrontation, he stepped through the door. He pointedly looked anywhere besides the bed that his mother had insisted on adding to the room in case any of his friends ever wanted to spend the night at the Manor. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, attempting to sit up straight like she had back at Hogwarts whenever she was prepared to answer a question.

He cursed whatever deity had created this situation. The last thing he wanted to deal with in addition to his new full-time occupation was his annoying classmate-turned academic enemy. _Turned true enemy_ , he reminded himself as he worked to keep his eyes off of her. In his insistence to face away from the bed itself, he could see her reflected in the mirror above the bed; he could see her gaze affixed to his back.

He ignored the way her eyes widened as she realized what his outfit meant - the dark robes and flowing cloak being the well-known uniform of the followers of the Dark Lord, undoing the clasp on his outerwear to leave him in just his shirt and trousers. As he dropped it over the back of the chair of his desk he took one last moment for his eyes to run over her reflection.

Granger had always been petite, but now she was downright tiny, her figure mirroring his own. Her face looked more angular than it ever had, and with a jolt he realized that once she was back to her normal weight, she would be rather pretty. Not pretty in the same way as the women of Slytherin, but more of a natural beauty. He shook his head, attempting to rid his mind of those thoughts as they danced their way through his mind. This was Granger.

But his mind refused to listen, taunting him with the word pretty over and over as he scowled.

“Malfoy?” came her small voice from where she was propped up in the bed, a book in hand. A tray from the kitchens was next to her on the bed, half-eaten, and he frowned at that, wondering why she had only picked at the meal. He closed his eyes to steady himself, drawing a deep breath between his teeth and ignoring her, he released the locking enchantment with a wave of his wand.

“Malfoy, there’s blood on your face,” she said from behind him.

He continued to ignore her, pulling a pain and blood replenishing potion from his top drawer and throwing it to the back of his throat. He rustled through the drawers, looking for anything that would work on bones, yes, he was fairly certain at least one of his fingers was broken, and a sobering potion.

He could hear Granger say something again, but the effects of the pain potion were sinking in, making it slightly easier to ignore her as the sharpness in his hand intensified slightly before fading. He let out a puff of air, hearing her ask if he was okay. He waved her off with a motion of his dominant hand, watching in the mirror as she flinched at the way his wand moved with his fingers.

 _So, she is scared of you_ , his brain taunted, causing him to close his eyes and take another deep breath as the potion for his bones began to slowly kick in, bringing the room to the front of his mind with sharp clarity. He opened a drawer on the desk, removing one of the towels he kept for just this reason, setting his wand down to use his uninjured hand to wipe the blood off of his forehead as he felt his own skin begin to knit back together.

“D’you need help?” he heard her soft voice murmur, stopping him in his tracks. Of all of the things he thought Hermione Granger would say to him after he returned from a raid, offering to help him clean the blood from his forehead was not one of them.

He turned slowly to finally meet her eyes, which were immediately fixated on his face. His eyes searched her face for flaws - her eyes were too wide apart, and her hair was too wild - but he was strangely lured in by her voice and the comfort it offered.

“Malfoy?” she said softly, wincing as she placed a slip of parchment in the book and closed it, “I can help if you need.”

He wondered if she would comfort him still if she knew what he had done that evening. If she knew how the cut on his forehead had come from an older witch swinging a vase at his forehead before he easily struck her down with a flash of green light. He wondered if Granger’s offer to her captor would still be extended if she realized that he had watched on silently as Theo had murdered a child in cold blood as their mission team had ransacked a ministry worker’s home searching for documents they had never found.

A nagging feeling in Draco’s gut told him it had all been set up as such, only to give him and Theo chances to show they were willing to murder, but he pushed them out of his mind.

He wondered if Granger would would be able to do the same.

Draco came back to reality with a jolt. This was Hermione Granger. It was not Pansy, it was not Daphne, and it was not anyone he could rely on for comfort. There was _no one_ he could rely on for comfort anymore. He scowled at her, steeling his resolve once more.

“Granger,” he ground out as he turned back towards the desk. “Shut up.”

He heard her huff slightly, but she fell silent for a moment, giving him a break from her voice and his intrusive thoughts.

Until “You recognized me.”

It took him a moment before he was cued in. She wanted to talk about the events in the parlor. He had no interest in having that conversation with her ever, let alone on a night where he wasn’t yet fully sober.

“I can assure you did not,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice the slight quiver in his voice.

She shook her head, and he could see the tangled curls bouncing on the pillow in the mirror as she attempted to sit further up in the bed. She winced in pain, but he ignored her, wiping down his face and refusing to move to help her.

“You did,” she insisted again.

“Shut up, Granger.”

And he wished she would. She was too innocent, despite having lived through the same war he had. Words like that could get them both killed in this house, true or otherwise.

“Malfoy, I know you did,” Granger said quietly.

He finally turned to look at her as she watched him calmly.

“Granger,” he began slowly. “You do not know what you are talking about. You do not know what goes on in this house. I _implore_ you now. Shut. Up.” He watched her face carefully, hoping she grasped some sense of the balancing game he was playing, and as their eyes met, she nodded her head the slightest amount and Draco hoped she had understood.

And then she spoke again. “I know you’re not a bad person.”

He wanted to smack her across the face. How could such a smart witch be so stupid. How could such a smart witch think _he_ was so stupid as to be manipulated by her soft voice and caring eyes. But, before he knew it, he was snapping. The shields he worked so hard to maintain were crashing down around his mind. He didn’t know how she had broken them so quickly, with so few words, but for some reason, this woman could break him in a way that even the Dark Lord hadn’t.

“Did it never occur to you at school that I’m not the evil spawn you and your friends assume I am?” he snarled, hating how she could push his buttons so easily, but relishing the feeling of being able to let go, even if it was only with a prisoner.

The corners of her lips twitched upwards slightly, irking him even further. He felt the irrational urge to draw his wand on her but knew that if he did so he would be failing yet another test.

“I know that,” Granger said, scoffing slightly. “You were never evil at school, Malfoy. Just a stupid bully.”

He said nothing, ignoring the jolt in his chest. Instead, he focused on stretching the fingers of his previously broken hand, enjoying the way he was able to move them without pain.

“Yes,” she continued, her hazel eyes watching him closely. “You’ve been far too nice to me to even be a _real_ Death Eater.”

He wasn’t sure what she wanted, but it was obviously something. Perhaps an admission of his guilt, or an offer to leave a window open for her to escape. Not that she would get far in this state, nor would she get far by getting under his skin. She didn’t realize how much he had changed, he realized. She didn’t realize how much he had been forced to change. He was close to leaving the room, but his curiosity perked up.

With a sigh, he gave in, despite the anger that was coursing right below his skin. “What are you trying to get me to do?” Draco asked.

Granger flushed at the insinuation but began speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

“I mean, you’ve healed me, yeah?” she began tentatively, watching his face. He worked on pulling his occlumency back up.

“And, I mean, there has to be a way that I could accidentally escape…”

The shields fell. “Granger,” he spat, “I am not _on your side._ ”

“But you could help!” she insisted. “You’ve been kind this far, and-”

“And so, you’re saying I should just let you go? Let my mother get killed because I let little Miss Mudblood escape in the dead of the night?” Draco could hear his voice rising, and he knew he should remove himself from Granger’s room.

“But Malfoy-”

“Shut up!” he heard himself say, “Can you ever fucking do that? Can you ever fucking shut your mouth? You have no idea what is going on around you. What? Did you think that if you got to me early that you’d endear yourself to me? That I’d just let you escape ignoring every ounce of self-preservation I have?”

The way her face flushed showed him that he had hit the nail on the head. He growled slightly.

“You don’t care about me and you aren’t expected to. Just as I don’t care about you,” he said slowly, ignoring the pounding in his head. He whirled on his foot, ready to leave the room; he had already said far more than he had ever wanted.

Her small voice came from behind him once more.

“I just don’t understand why you’ve been so nice to me if you won’t _help_.”

If Draco was being honest with himself, he didn’t completely understand it either. He could have left her to Zilly, or any one of the other elves. He hadn’t been particularly nice, but there were ways he could have made her stay much less pleasant. He felt a swell of embarrassment thinking of the times he had glanced at her, worried, as she tossed in pain while he sat as his potions desk much longer than he had to.

He hadn’t been nice, he told himself, he was only being pragmatic.

“Draco-” she started once more, noticing how he had stopped moving towards his own room. There was no way she could have known, and he knew she was trying to manipulate him. The switch from Malfoy to Draco had been subtle, but it was the thing tipped him over the edge.

“Fine!” he finally hissed, reaching the end of his patience. Draco knew, logically, that he was being irrational, but the girl genuinely pushed at every ounce of self-control that he had. He stomped back towards the bed and reached out to grab her upper arm, ignoring the way her eyes got wide and she flinched away from his hand.

“Stop!” she yelled as his fingers closed down over a pre-existing bruise, her eyes watering at the pain.

“You told me you didn’t want to be treated kindly, yeah?” Draco spat, pulling her from the bed. She was wearing a short nightgown, obviously something that was provided to her from his household and he debated pointing that out as she yelped in pain. He decided against it as he pulled at her arm, dragging her towards the door. She shrieked his name again, but he was a man possessed, be it from the anger or the alcohol he couldn’t tell.

He should have worked harder to find a sobering potion.

Draco pulled his wand from his robes with his free hand and pointed it at her, feeling something inside of him clench with the way her sunken eyes displayed such visible fear of him.

“ _Silencio_ ,” he drawled, causing her watery eyes to shut in relief as he slid his wand back in his trouser pants. “Now, c’mon.”

He heard her pained exhales but pulled her out of the room and down the hall, her bare feet shuffling behind him. Every couple of steps she would stumble slightly, but his hand on her arm kept her upright as he dragged her down the dark hallways of the Manor. Normally, his destination would have taken them through the foyer, but his father’s body currently resided there for vigil, so instead he took a detour through another sitting room, grateful that it was empty. He focused on working hard to ignore the way Granger’s breath was coming in pained pants and her stumbles became more frequent the longer they walked.

“Keep up,” he snapped as he felt her sag towards the floor, yanking her arm once more. He refused to think about the bruise his fingers were leaving on her arm, desperately needing her to believe the lesson he was trying to teach her.

They finally slowed as he reached the cellar stairs, where Draco finally turned to meet Granger’s eyes. He could see the clear tear marks down her face and the purple was already beginning to expand from underneath his fingers. He felt the guilt in his stomach flare again, but instead gave Granger a slight push in front of him.

“Down,” he said, gesturing with the wand he had pulled from his pocket. He lit the end with a non-verbal charm so she could see down the stairs to the holding cells where until recently her friends had resided. She gave him a glare and opened her mouth, but his spell held, and she was unable to say anything.

“I won’t say it again,” Draco said, gesturing down the stairs with his lit wand. “We’re done with kindness just like _you_ said.”

Granger shook her head, those coffee curls bouncing, but Draco grabbed ahold of her arm once more, pulling her down after him towards the cell. He could see her lips forming curses, but together they made their way heavily down the stairs. He felt gooseflesh on her arm and wondered briefly if she would be too cold down here for the evening but shoved that thought aside as well as he let her drop to the floor.

She looked up at him, her deep honey eyes watery, but still drilling into his own. Again, he felt his guilty conscious flare, knowing that his mother would hate the man he was turning into. But then again, his mother’s actions had lost her a husband, and if he did not act as expected, they would lose her a son as well. With that thought in mind, he met Granger’s eyes and gave her a twisted smirk.

“Well princess, your accommodations for the evening,” was all that Draco could think to say before turning on his heel, locking the cellar door with his wand, and marching back upstairs and refusing to think about Hermione Granger for the rest of the evening.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, wasn't a fan of this one. Didn't enjoy writing it, didn't enjoy the outcome, but it's time for ~slow burn~ I guess.

When her eyes opened, her first thought was how cold she was.

And then she thought about how much she hated Draco Malfoy.

Then she thought that she was lucky to have even gotten any sleep.

And then she reminded herself of her hatred for Draco Malfoy.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself trying to coax any remaining warmth from her arms into her torso but found herself shivering almost uncontrollably. She cursed the little elf - Zilly, who she had finally figured out was a female elf and _very_ opposed to the idea of discussing freedom - for putting her in such a skimpy piece of fabric to sleep. Though she supposed that the elf had thought she would be sleeping in the comfortable bed in Malfoy Manor, not on cold dungeon stones. What Hermione wouldn’t do for a pair of fluffy pajama pants and slippers.

Instead, all she had was a bracelet on her ankle, tying her to Malfoy Manor. A bracelet that potentially tied her to Draco Malfoy himself. She could feel it, heavy on her leg, scraping along the floor every time she tried to find slightly more comfort on the cold floor. She had spent much of the afternoon before attempting to get rid of it, almost crying with anger at her suppressed magic as she attempted every wandless spell she could imagine, finally resigning herself to attempt to work out what it was from any clues from the Malfoy heir himself.

Hermione drew in a deep breath, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling as the first rays of light flickered through the only miniature window at the top of the wall to her left. While moving her body felt more comfortable than when she had woken up, any motion still sent small shockwaves of pain through her nervous system, and the overall feeling of dread had not yet left her body.

She closed her eyes, feeling hot tears leak down her cheeks. Things had gone wrong so quickly. Wrong event after wrong event had landed her here, trying to sleep on stones in a black silk negligee.

First there was the capture of her and Harry and Ron. She had always recognized it was a possibility, but after so much time it hadn’t felt like it had been one of the options she continually weighed in her head. Especially with only three horcruxes left - the cup, something of Ravenclaw’s, and something of Gryffindor’s.

Hermione knew that she often drove the boys forward and felt a tinge of fear at the idea of them trying to continue on their own. She had faith in them, of course. She and Harry had survived on their own, why couldn’t he and Ron? But even as she attempted to convince herself of such, her heart dropped, the years of doing their homework and research flooding back to her. She had to help them.

Which led to the night before - pleading with Malfoy to help, to do anything besides sit at home in his mansion on babysit her. In the moments leading up to her plea she had been sure that he would; she had spent the afternoon telling herself that he wanted out of Malfoy Manor just as much as she did.

There had been a convincing body of evidence in her favor: namely, his dead father, but she had also been convinced by the fear in his eyes when she mentioned the Dark Lord and the slight hesitation he had when discussing anything in his home. There were too many moments of him pulling up mental shields for it not to be fear. It was clear that Draco Malfoy was scared, but that was not enough to push him to help her.

Lying on the cold cellar floor, she swore. She had sworn more in the past few days than she could remember swearing over the past few years but found that she was relishing the feeling of anger that the words provided her. She swore once more, resolving to do it all herself. Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, and he meant nothing to her. It was clear that in adulthood he remained a bully, albeit a more dangerous one. This was no longer schoolyard drama, though, it hadn’t been for a while.

She figured he would come down soon to check up on her as he had been so careful to nurse her back to health, and she worked to steel herself against him. He was not the childish prick from school, he was a Death Eater. She no longer knew anything about this man. He was likely a murderer, and if not, it wasn’t because he hadn’t tried. She couldn’t provoke this Draco Malfoy with test scores and quidditch losses.

* * *

Hermione woke again to a shattering noise - something falling? dropping? - against the wooden floor above her head. She felt her vision fog almost immediately and shook her head; attempting to shake it out of away, but suddenly she felt the floor shift underneath her body. Hermione briefly heard the sound of laughter, but her mind was reeling, sending her backwards in time.

First it was Voldemort’s high voice that ricocheted through her head:

_I asked you a question, mudblood._

_Crucio._

She knew he wasn’t there; that it wasn’t real, but she couldn’t stop herself from flinching backwards as her vision closed in, placing her firmly back in the Malfoy’s foyer. Pain tore through her body at her jerky movements, worsening the pain of the curse she had just heard.

_Seven to go!_

Bellatrix Lestrange was also in her head.

Suddenly Bellatrix Lestrange stood in front of her as well.

Pain shot through her arm as she felt her physical body convulse. She wanted to beg but the pain was slowly taking over her body.

_Sit up, mudblood._

Hermione screamed silently, throwing herself backwards, away from a phantom shadow that was closing in on her far too quickly. She could feel her breath coming in short pants, and she felt herself holding up her wand arm empty-handed aiming anywhere to fend off her attackers.

The room was spinning, alternating between the Malfoy’s cellar and their foyer. She could feel time rushing by her, and yet not passing at all as she gasped for air. There was a figure in front of her - one moment it was Draco Malfoy and the next it was Voldemort, and then suddenly Bellatrix Lestrange.

_Nor you, Antonin._

And then she was back in the Ministry, a purple flame ripping through her chest.

She screamed again, scrambling backwards while mindlessly attempting to shout any defensive spell she could think of, not realizing that Malfoy’s silencing spell from the night before still held.

_ExpelliarmusProtegoLocomotorMortisStupefy_

_Protego_

_Stupefy. Stupefy. Stupefy._

Both rooms faded and the world went black.

* * *

It was hours later when Hermione heard a door swing open, and she opened her eyes to find herself back in the airy bedroom from the day before. She made eye contact with herself in the mirror over the foot of the bed, noting how frightened she looked, her eyes darting around the frame wildly.

She heard Malfoy say her last name softly, but she turned on her side away from him, in order to avoid speaking to him. Her body ached, and despite everything she had told herself, she could already feel her eyes watering at having to have this confrontation. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had made her cry. Again.

Instead, she wrapped one arm around her upper body, acutely aware of her lack of a bra, as she yanked the bedsheets higher over the silky fabric that had offered her little to no warmth the night before. She willed the tears away, staring resolutely at the light green wallpaper, feeling slightly grateful that she was no longer in the Malfoy cellar. _The Malfoy Dungeon_ , she thought with a small internal chuckle, thinking of the times she and her friends would joke about this very location back at school.

But instead of rotting house elves or piles of money in the Malfoy Dungeons, last night it had been Hermione Granger.

“Granger,” she heard him say again before cursing softly. There were a few heavy footfalls, and then a cold hand touched her shoulder. Almost inadvertently she flinched away from his hand, scrambling backwards and throwing her own back painfully into the bed frame.

She finally looked at Malfoy, whose mouth was pulled into a grimace. He didn’t look apologetic, per se, perhaps just shy of regretful.

“Fuck, Granger, you’ve got to take these,” he said, causing her to look away from his silver eyes to the myriad of potions he was laying out on the covers in front of her. She gave him a glare as she wrapped her arms around her knees to lay her head on top, facing to the side. All she could think about was not sniffling; not giving him the satisfaction that his actions had hurt her physically or emotionally.

The Draco Malfoy she had resigned herself to hating that morning was not the same man who was in front of her. Nor was he the Draco Malfoy she had known in school. The rapid mood changes were making her head spin, and in her vulnerable state, she didn’t know what to think. She wondered for a second what Malfoy thought of her in these moments. Did he still see the bushy-haired child or someone new and different?

 _No._ She had to remind herself. It didn’t matter what Malfoy thought of her. It didn’t matter how kind he was in passing moments, Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. He was no longer a schoolyard bully. He had returned last night covered in blood and had uncaringly thrown her into a literal cell within his own house. There was no way to claim anything other than the facts.

She would just have to keep her wits about her.

He muttered her name again, and she felt the side of the bed dip slightly. She could see him uncorking a vial in her periphery and she drew in a deep breath, steeling herself as she drew her head up as proudly as she could to stare him down.

He flinched slightly, pausing to hand her the first vial. She grit her teeth, waiting for an explanation of what she would be taking.

“Pain potion,” Malfoy muttered, moving on to the next vial as she tilted her head back to swallow the liquid. Another potion was shoved under her nose.

“For the bruises, and the arm,” Malfoy continued. Another vial. “Cruciatus internal damage.” Another. “Cruciatus mental damage.” Another. “The seizures.”

Hermione took them each without protest, but her brow knit together, prepared to question him on the seizures. She opened her mouth, looking at Malfoy, and no sound came out.

His stoic face flushed slightly as he pulled his wand, finally ending the silencing charm he had placed on her the evening before. She nodded her thanks as he summoned a glass of water, gently pressing the glass into her shaking fingers.

She drank gratefully, the big gulps soothing her aching throat. She ignored Malfoy as she drank, only stopping when she reached the bottom of the glass to place it back into his outstretched hand.

“Granger-” he started once more, but she shook her head to cut him off.

“What happened?” Hermione demanded, glaring as harshly at Malfoy as she could manage. She was sure her eyes were rimmed with red, a clear giveaway for how scared she felt despite her tense face. She felt grateful to feel another surge of anger through her body as she glared at Malfoy’s grey eyes. No matter what had happened that morning - that strange episode in the basement - she was certain that it was Malfoy’s fault. He looked down at the bed sheets, wetting his lips before his shoulders moved in a shrug. He ran a hand through his hair before looking back up at her.

“I’m not sure,” he finally articulated, his eyes scanning her face. She felt her own face twist in disappointment, but Malfoy was standing up and walking to his potions desk. He bent down to grab something and returned to stand by the bed, placing a jar in front of her. “Bruise salve.”

Hermione nodded gratefully, grasping the jar in her hands, but continued to question him. This Malfoy seemed almost pliant and much more willing to talk to her. He was almost being nice, but she refused to touch that word again, even in her own mind.

“The seizures?”

Malfoy’s face fell slightly. “Usually a cruciatus side effect, not many people live to see them with intact minds, so I guess congratulations are in order, Granger.”

“Is that what happened this morning?” she prodded again.

Malfoy grimaced, returning to his potions bench. He unlocked it with his wand, pulling out the plush chair and swiveling it around to face the bed. For a moment he glanced at her, his face looking incredibly young before she saw the occlumency shields raise again; she was starting to be able to pinpoint the exact moment that his face stiffened, and his eyes glazed with the magic.

“Not exactly,” he said slowly. “I came down when your vitals spiked and found you throwing yourself around the room, that’s all I know. Not unsurprising with the amount of torture your body has been through,” he said calmly, not even truly looking at her. While she hated the man whom she had interacted with last night, this one with his stiffness and cold responses potentially scared her more.

“But-” she began again, but he held up a hand, the jerky motion shocking Hermione into silence.

“You,” he began quietly, his voice coming out in a low hiss, “are going to listen for once.”

He glanced at her, waiting for her approval. She nodded her head silently, bunching her hands in the covers as she pulled a blanket over her shoulders.

“You are not here as a guest,” Malfoy began, wetting his lips again. “You are here because the Dark Lord has said that you will stay here. Your only choice is how hard this experience has to be for the both of us.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, confirming she understood what he was saying. Hermione bobbed her head in agreement, willing him to continue.

“We,” he said, gesticulating between the two of them, “are not friends. We are not allies. You are my responsibility. That is it.” Malfoy took a deep breath, steeling his eyes. “That means you take the potions that are keeping you alive without a struggle. You will listen to me, and perhaps we can grant you more privileges.”

Hermione perked up slightly at the last word. “Like what?” she couldn’t help but ask. Malfoy’s sneer returned to his face, the handsome angles twisting into something darker.

“Don’t you want to know what you’ll have to do to earn those privileges first?” he asked, his voice low and cruel.

She felt her throat go dry and the insinuation of what Malfoy was saying but met his eyes proudly and nodded her own head. She had heard tales of what happened to people caught by Death Eater raids, standing with her ear pressed to the door of Order meetings.

Hermione felt her mind race, thinking back to the hushed words she would overhear, her head pressed together with Harry and Ron before they would scramble away from whatever footsteps would leave the meetings first.

She could almost hear Sirus’ tired voice, whispering to Remus that it was _always the women._ That Death Eaters still liked _the pretty ones, just the same as the last go around._

Or Mrs. Weasley, her voice full of unshed tears discussing _the poor dears who had been left for dead_ in Knockturn Alley in ripped robes with skulls carved into their visible flesh. _And so much was visible!_ Molly had cried.

She remembered the tones of the adults in the Order, discussing the women who had turned to _aiding_ the Death Eaters in the ways they knew how; of the horrible position between saving yourself and giving yourself away on a silver platter.

Previously, nothing had turned Hermione’s stomach the same way the stories of children did, but she figured that wasn’t the fate for her. The ship had sailed on a quick _Avada_ that would cut her own life short. Instead, she had to concern herself with any long-term effects from the war; of the trauma that she could potentially survive with.

As if reading her mind, Malfoy’s lips twisted upwards, not in a smirk, but in what was as close to a smile as she had seen on his face.

“I’m not going to sully myself with the likes of you,” he spat, in full form as the Hogwarts bully she once knew. Hermione felt her face flush; she wasn’t sure if it was the embarrassment of the words or the insinuation of what sullying himself implied but bit her tongue and waited for him to continue.

“You are confined to this room until I decide that you can be trusted to leave” Malfoy began. Immediately Hermione attempted to interject, but Malfoy held up his hand to stop her. “That is for your safety as much as it is a punishment.”

Hermione felt her eyebrows knit together, but Malfoy looked dead serious. She knew that Malfoy Manor was the base for much of the Death Eater activity, so she nodded and sat back on the pillows as he continued.

“You will be brought your meals here unless you are leaving the room with me. You will take your potions with no protest. You will not disturb the other occupants of his house.” Malfoy rattled off in quick succession, without waiting for her approval. “My potions bench is here. It is locked and you are unable to touch it. I will work to move it elsewhere, but that cannot be done until a few of these potions are completed. When I am in here and working, you will be silent, or I will silence you myself. Understood?”

Hermione frowned slightly, but nodded, her lips pursed. Malfoy bobbed his head in response.

“There are books in the shelves here, and you are welcome to them for the time being. If you behave, perhaps more of the books from the library can find themselves sent here.”

“The library?” Hermione asked, her heart warming slightly at the thought of the Hogwarts library she had loved so much. All she had wanted for months was to return to Hogwarts, to sit in the plush library chairs with any book and read for fun.

Malfoy smirked again, meeting her eyes. “I did mention privileges, yes? If you behave, I’m sure we can work out ways for you to leave this room - Malfoy Manor boasts one of the largest private libraries in all of England. The grounds are quite extensive, and while you cannot leave, there is a plethora of things to keep you occupied here.”

Hermione nodded eagerly; her mind full of the research materials she was certain were located in Malfoy Manor. She could feel the dark magic in the house; perhaps even another horcrux was in this very building. Even small freedoms in this situation could potentially help Harry, and so she put her most innocent facial expression on and nodded up at Malfoy.

“I understand,” she said softly as Malfoy nodded and stood, waving his wand over the potions desk to lock it once more. He turned quickly, moving to leave through one of the doors. Before she could stop herself, she had called out his name, causing him to turn and give her another disdainful look.

“Why?” she managed to whisper, her throat rasping. “Why are you giving me this _opportunity?”_

She refused to say the word nice again in the presence of Draco Malfoy.

He chuckled, obviously sensing what she was asking. She expected him to ignore her question, but to her surprise, his face softened slightly in the light.

“I’ve been away, Granger. You know I was back at Hogwarts until the holidays?” he asked. She obviously hadn’t known but ached to ask him questions of the school that she called home, but all she did was shook her head to indicate that she hadn’t known. He continued.

“You heard everything the Dark Lord said,” Malfoy said slowly, as if turning over each word in his mind before letting it slip through his lips. “You are important to him, and so I will treat you as such.”

Hermione’s head reeled, turning over each word and looking for more meaning.

“But _why_?” slipped from her lips before she could stop the words.

Malfoy ignored her, only walking to wrench open the door to the hallway. He paused for a moment, looking back at her as she huddled under the covers. His grey gaze was sharp again, the occlumency having fallen for a brief moment.

“You’ve always aspired to be the brightest bulb in the box, Granger. I’m sure you can come up with plenty of reasons for me to be,” Malfoy smiled, “ _nice_.”

He shut the door behind him, leaving her to lie back in the pillows, wincing slightly at the movement. It was only hours later that Hermione realized that Draco Malfoy had used a muggle idiom.

* * *

Hermione didn’t see Malfoy for the rest of the day. She wasn’t feeling well enough to do much besides take another luxurious bath and doze in and out of consciousness, waking only for a tray of tea and scones from Zilly in the afternoon and again for a round of potions and dinner.

She fell asleep with the tray of beef pie still on her bed, which she knocked the floor in the middle of the evening. She had woken with a start, the feeling of terror encompassing her entire body. She felt her raw vocal cords and realized that at some point while asleep she must have screamed, leading her to believe the nightmare must have followed a similar plot to the episode in the dungeon earlier that day.

As she lay back in the bed, trying to calm her racing heart, she couldn’t help but allow the tears to flow once more. She spent a moment berating herself - she hadn’t cried this much since going to puberty at Hogwarts - but at some point, just turned on her side and allowed the tears to flow.

She cried for her fearful mental state and for the new scars that littered her body. She cried for the loss of her two best friends, who she had never felt so distanced from. She spent a moment wondering if they knew she was alive, which threw her into more hysterics. At least when Ron had left them, they were able to assume he had gone home to his family; they hadn’t had to leave him in the midst of an enemy’s den.

She spent a moment crying as she thought of her own situation; of the many moods of Draco Malfoy, but also of the relief she had every time a meal was delivered, of she was able to spend time truly cleaning her body in months. She knew her own situation was not a good one but couldn’t help but feel moments of gratefulness for no longer having to be on the run. Hermione thought of this, immediately feeling bad, especially as her friends were likely somewhere alone in a tent at that very moment.

More tears fell as she thought of everyone she had let down. Not only Harry and Ron, but Sirius, who’s body still lay in the ministry. Of her parents, alone across the world making a new life with no memory of her. Of Remus, who she had sworn to protect Harry to. Of Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, the twins, Moody… the list was too long; there were too many people she had let down.

With that in mind, Hermione spent the next few hours naming each person she could think of and apologizing until she finally fell back to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all if you've been reading this - I really did not expect quarantine to bring my fully back into my Harry Potter phase, and I haven't written anything outside of academic works in years. I really appreciate all of the follows / reviews / etc. which was not expected at all.

Lucius Malfoy would have hated his own funeral. He had lived his life as a man of pomp and circumstance; he had been a man who had surrounded himself with flocks of white peacocks and Ministry delegations. Draco was sure that his father had expected to leave the world in the same way he had lived it.

Instead, Lucius Malfoy was buried on a quiet March morning, surrounded by a handful of his peers and the family he had left behind.

The Malfoy family, once small, was now an endangered species.

Draco had moved through the morning in a daze, dropping by his mother’s room in his formal black robes to find her still asleep. He had gently woken her, Narcissa pulling her wand on him just as she had every other time she had been startled over the past few days. Draco had summoned Zilly to help her get dressed before meeting the ministry wizard out near the Malfoy Mausoleum where his father would be laid to rest.

He was grateful for a moment - the funeral would enable his mother to touch his father’s items again, meaning she would be moving back into the East wing of the Manor where he resided. He hadn’t told her - he hadn’t told anyone – of the intense fear he had of leaving his mother among the rooms where the rest of the Death Eaters would often spend evenings. He held on to that small item of reprieve as he proceeded through the day.

In true Malfoy fashion, as the eldest surviving Malfoy heir, he had been the one to levitate his father’s body from the parlor where the vigil had been held out to the grassy field on the property. He had stumbled once, his father’s body bumping over the air but had managed to follow all procedures in a way he thought his father would have been appreciative of. Not overjoyed, of course, but Draco had remembered his father doing the same with his grandfather’s body and felt that he had at least lived up to expectations.

 _Lived up to expectations for once_ , a cruel voice in his head had said.

The funeral was small. Rowan Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Thomas Nott, Walden MacNair, Antonin Dolohov and Corban Yaxley - much of the inner circle that Lucius had belonged to - had shown up. Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle had shown up with their fathers, and Theo had come as well. Draco had been surprised that Severus hadn’t made an appearance, but he was often out doing unknown tasks for the Dark Lord. Fleetingly, he wondered if Severus had even been informed that his father was no longer alive.

Aunt Bella had sauntered in with his uncle, making a fuss that caused Narcissa Malfoy to fully fall apart, her small body shaking with sobs. Draco had frowned at Bella, who merely shrugged and waltzed over to MacNair, asking about some inane ministry policy.

The service itself was unmemorable. It was short, just as he had requested when he walked the wizard down across the land. There were a few words Draco didn’t hear from the ministry wizard, the casting of the Dark Mark into the air, and a quick vigil before his father’s peers began to disapparate away. Yaxley had given Draco a firm handshake and a wink as he congratulated him on being the head of the Malfoy family and offered to look after his mother in the future. Over her husband’s grave, the other man had offered to draw up a contract for the grieving widow to spend the rest of her days with him.

Draco had wanted to vomit.

Instead, he had waited all of them out. Waited until his father’s body had been placed away for the rest of time. Waited until Aunt Bella finally provided some help, disapparating his mother back to her room. And then he had finally turned to face his friends, his occlumency finally falling. Greg, Vince, and Theo had stood there silently until Theo sprang into action, directing the other two men back to Draco’s sitting room, the two of them leaving with a pop.

Draco felt his chest heave as he drew in large gulps of spring air. He turned away from Theo, facing the marble mausoleum once more to place his hands on it for support.

“Easy,” he heard his friend behind him, feeling the other man’s steadying hands on his shoulders as he emptied his stomach onto the ground. “It’s going to be okay,” Theo muttered quietly.

Draco whirled on him, eyes watering. He saw the surprise flit across Theo’s face before sympathy overtook it; the other man had never been as good at hiding his emotions as Draco had.

“How,” Draco hissed, “is it going to be okay?”

Theo looked at Draco levelly for a moment before shrugging his shoulders in a casual motion that pulled a low growl from his friend’s chest.

“I dunno,” Theo finally said before clapping a hand on Draco’s upper arm and repeating himself more softly.

Draco spent a moment pulling as much of himself back together before looking at his friend again. The two men stood in silence, blue eyes meeting grey.

“I don’t want it,” Draco finally whispered, swiping at his wet face with a handkerchief someone had pressed into his hand earlier in the day. “I don’t want to be the Lord of Malfoy Manor. I don’t want to take my father’s Wizengamot seat.” As he started talking, he could feel his voice raising but did nothing to reign it in as his anger grew.

“I want to go back to school and take my fucking exams, not do this!” he said, throwing an arm out and gesticulating wildly. Theo nodded solemnly as Draco’s voice continued to rise.

“I don’t want to look after a mudblood or do any of these tasks! I’m tired of being the one who has to keep this household in order and get punished for every failing!”

Draco’s voice rose to a scream, but when he said the last word it felt like the air was pushed out of his chest. He fell forward, landing heavily on his knees. He knew he didn’t have the leeway to fall apart in such a way, but standing there with nowhere else to turn, Draco felt his helplessness closing in.

It wasn’t the same helplessness that he had felt last year, standing in front of an impossible task, this was something worse. He now knew the only way forward that he had left in front of him. There were no Hogwarts professors to turn to any longer. Severus was no longer looking over his shoulder, ensuring he was on the right track. There was no longer the thought that he could walk to the headmaster’s office and confess his sins and accept whatever punishment would be handed down to him.

And there was no more of his father. No one to go to for backup, no one who understood this utter disgrace of having to limp home after being _Crucio_ -ed one too many times as a Malfoy. There was no other man who understood the pressure of having been born into one of the purest bloodlines that Britain had seen in years. His father was no longer there for the guidance and approval that Draco so desperately sought. To make it worse, he hadn’t even really had his father towards the end. The man who had stumbled through the Manor wandless and drunk was not Lucius Malfoy. Draco’s last days had been with a shell of the father he had once aspired to be.

Their last days together had been as shells of their former selves due to their pledge to another man. Now, there was no escaping the mark that had sunk into the skin on his left arm.

And so, he allowed himself the brief moment of nothingness. He didn’t notice Theo kneeling in front of him, both of them dirtying their good robes. He hardly felt the pressure of his friend’s hand on his arm, or the moment when his oldest friend pulled him into a loose embrace as he sobbed. There was no care for his mother, or the Dark Lord, or even Granger.

There was nothing else but his grief.

And for once he allowed himself to be swept up in all that he had lost.

* * *

When Draco and Theo finally showed up to Draco’s room, neither Vince nor Greg said anything of his red-rimmed eyes, for which he was grateful. The two larger men had already grabbed bottles of liquor from the wine cellar –which had been continually raided by the newfound residents of Malfoy Manor – and were starting to pour their first glasses.

Draco lowered himself onto the bench under the window, nodding as Greg placed a crystal glass of Ogden’s Finest into his hand. The ice clinked as Draco gulped down the entire amount before placing the tumbler on the table for Greg to refill.

Vince laughed lightly, though his beady eyes were sharp. “Cheers, mate.”

Draco could do nothing besides helplessly watch as his friends tittered.

“Reminds me of Zabini, drinking like that,” Greg added, his voice also too light for the situation.

Theo plopped down next to Draco, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he reached for the bottle, filling up his own glass for the first time before adding more to Draco’s. The other man locked eyes with each of his companions one at a time as he held his glass in the air. Draco snorted at the gesture, but Theo only rolled his eyes, before looking pointedly at Draco’s now full glass.

Appeasing his friend, Draco grabbed the glass from the sitting room table, gently holding it in front of his face.

“To the Dark Lord,” Theo began, clearing his throat. “May he live long and bring about a new era of purity. And to those we will lose to his great mission along the way. To Lucius Malfoy.”

“To Lucius Malfoy,” Greg and Vince echoed before they all drank silently.

While Theo would never admit it, there was something that laced his voice, a darkness just beneath the surface. Perhaps Draco only recognized it because the same tone was present in his own, but it was something far too dangerous. He trusted these men as much as he could, which was still not a lot. While he never thought they would intentionally bring his fearful thoughts to the Dark Lord, there was no question that their mental shields were all weaker than his own.

None of them were put under as much pressure, of course. Only a select few routinely had their memories shuffled through, and unfortunately Draco was one of the chosen.

And while Draco trusted Theo more than the other two, he refused to allow his mind to settle on why that was. Every bitter look and shifted tone were filed away deep within his mind. Each time Theo’s eyes would dart to Draco’s, every time either man threw up after a mission, every slight hesitation before a curse, were all carefully cut from his memories and stowed deep within the boxes in his mind that he refused to touch.

Draco knew the boxes would fade. Those moments of doubt would slowly disappear if only Theo was more subtle. The men couldn’t have a full conversation – certainly not with others in the room – but he hoped they understood each other well enough. A full conversation would be too hard to hide; it would open up the cracks that the Dark Lord had not found before.

So, _To Lucius Malfoy_ and a raised glass was what Draco had to judge by.

Shaking his head to rid them of his thoughts, he allowed his mind to blank as best it could. He could tell that Theo was displeased with the slackening of his face by the way his eyes flashed, but Greg and Vince hardly noticed as Greg jokingly poured another round.

He could ignore his thoughts in this way. Mindlessly nodding along, conversing when needed, focused primarily on the smoky taste on his tongue.

It was on his fifth glass that he wondered if he was turning into his father.

It was getting dark outside when he reached his sixth.

By then, the men had brought out a deck of cards, playing a game of hands. Greg and Vince had gotten in a joking tiff over who was dealt the better cards, bursting into uproarious laughter when Draco had set his hand down, beating them both. Just like at Hogwarts, he had pulled the pile of Sickles towards himself, flipping one through his fingers and relishing the feeling of the hard gold.

Theo dealt another round and Draco won again, causing Vince to accuse him of cheating before slumping over himself shaking with laughter. At that point, he had called Zilly to escort the two men back to the North wing of the house and find them rooms for the evening, and the three figures were gone with a pop.

Draco reclined, stretching his feet onto an ottoman and enjoying the silence, only Theo’s breathing reminding him that someone else was in the room. Both men seemed content to sit quietly, the only noise the clinking of their ice in their glasses as they sipped.

“You cleaned them out tonight,” Theo finally joked. Draco snorted.

“They can think of it as payment for all the liquor they’ve helped themselves to from the cellar,” he responded, hearing the slight slur of his own words and feeling how heavy his tongue was. Theo laughed.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, and Draco heard him take another long sip. “Y’know as a kid this would’ve been my dream.”

“Theo,” Draco warned, knowing even drunk that this was too dangerous of a topic.

He heard Theo laugh again and opened one eye to see the other man wave his hand as if shooing a fly away.

“Not _this_ ,” he said darkly. “The ruin of the Malfoy family was all my father used to be able to talk about. Lucius beat him in this, and his son was better than his son in that.”

Draco swallowed, closing his eyes again. He had known the boys of Slytherin were jealous of him, but he was surprised at the little pang of guilt at hearing it from his best friend as Theo continued.

“I thought so too, y’know. For a while in second year, all I could think about was how much better than me you were at everything. That Theo would find this all so hilarious.”

Draco scoffed as if laughing off a joke but reminded himself that this was important to his friend. “And this Theo?” he finally asked. There was a silence, and finally Draco opened his eyes to find Theo’s blue ones staring into his own. They looked at each other for a long moment before Theo finally shrugged, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes once more.

“I beat you in two subjects that year, and three in third year-”

“Oy, I was injured!” Theo laughed again.

“By a bloody flying horse bird!” he said, and both boys finally fell into a casual laughter, removed enough from the actual situation to find it funny. When they stopped, Draco opened his eyes once more, waiting until Theo did the same. They sat in the comfortable silence for a moment before Theo finally continued.

“No,” he said, voice serious as he shook his sandy blond hair from his eyes. “I’m not jealous of you at all.”

The intensity of Theo’s gaze was startling, and Draco took a deep breath, steadying himself. The room was spinning slightly and for a moment Draco would have sworn that Theo’s eyes darted down to his lips, but before he could question it, the moment was gone. Theo stood suddenly, stretching his long arms above his head.

“Can I stay?” he said, hiccupping slightly as he inclined his head to the adjoining room that he often occupied.

For a moment, Draco thought of simpler times. Of evenings spent playing Quidditch out in the gardens and swimming in the pond before coming back to collapse in his chambers. Of course, while those times may have been simpler for him, they certainly weren’t for Theo, who often fled to Malfoy Manor to escape his father’s fists. If Draco closed his eyes tight enough, he could still see the dark bruises that only became visible when Theo would peel off his clothing with an apologetic shrug to go swimming.

Draco was so wrapped up in his own thoughts for a moment that he didn’t think twice, waving a hand for Theo to let himself into his potions room as per usual. He was finally allowing himself to focus back on childhood memories, on something less treacherous than the rest of the thoughts in his mind when he heard a quiet scream and then Theo’s chortling laugh.

He was reminded of his unwanted guest with a shock, quickly moving to his feet to help Theo shut her back into her room and send him to the other wing of the house.

His brain was reeling, making plans at a pace that was steps behind where it should be, the firewhisky clouding his brain. Perhaps that was why he was caught off guard as he stepped through the doorway behind Theo.

There sat the reminder of his failures.

She was no longer wearing the silky nightgown he had left her in, instead, she had donned one of the dresses he had sent the elves to pick up from Diagon Alley, a deep blue shift dress that reminded him of something one of the Greengrass girls would wear. Her hair was braided down her back, and while she still looked sickly, again his mind latched onto how plainly pretty she looked.

Theo was articulating similar thoughts to her, as she stared back disdainfully.

“I’d almost forgotten that the Dark Lord granted you a bedwarmer,” the other man joked, glancing away from Granger and back at Draco.

Draco felt his face pinch, the combination of Granger and the liquor making his occlumency skills weaker than usual. He opened his mouth to respond, but Granger beat him to it.

“I’m not a bedwarmer,” she spat, fixing Draco with a hateful look. Theo chuckled again and Draco fought the urge to throttle his friend.

“Mmm?” Theo asked, taking another step towards Granger and sinking into the armchair in front of her.

Granger had been sitting on the floor, but scrambled backwards, knocking over a stack of books. She immediately looked back at the pile that was spread across the carpet, a concerned frown marring her face and Draco took the moment to fully look at what she had been doing before they entered. Next to Granger’s bare legs sat a tray of dinner, from which it looked like she had barely eaten. Stacks of books were around her, some piled as high as she was tall sitting down. Draco briefly wondered where she had found all the books, but his eyes found that his bookshelves completely empty.

“Mmh,” Granger confirmed, anger present him her huffy tone.

“This gives me Hogwarts flashbacks, you Draco?” Theo asked, looking over at him. Draco shook his head wordlessly, trying to convey to the other man that he didn’t want to deal with Granger at the moment, but his friend appeared to be having too good of a time taunting the brunette to notice. Draco rolled his eyes but stepped fully into the room to take in the piles on the floor.

He stooped to pick up one of the books and heard Granger breathe in sharply, and his eyes snapped to hers. She was watching him carefully with annoyance and something else present in her eyes. _Fear_ , he realized with a jolt, noticing the way her hands shook slightly and her eyes darted between the two men, as if scared to let them get too close or catch her off guard.

Draco grunted noncommittedly, looking at his fourth-year potions book which he held in his hands.

“Brushing up, Granger?” he asked, waving the book slightly as he tossed it down on another one of her piles. She frowned as it touched the other stack, but shook her head slowly, as if sudden movements would startle him.

“Organizing,” she responded, voice still curt.

“And is this what you’d call organized?” Theo asked, gesturing at the stacks that were scattered on the carpet in front of him. Granger flushed prettily, but shook her head at the other boy, a semblance of a smile on her face. She raised her eyebrows quickly in an unconscious taunt.

“Sorting by what to read, since I don’t have any _privileges_ ,” she said, eyes darting to Draco, the fear returning. Theo laughed again.

“What has he promised you then?” the other man prompted, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees.

Those scared hazel eyes looked towards him once more, before flashing back to Theo.

“The library,” she said tentatively, “and maybe outside.”

“Outside!” Theo exclaimed in mock surprise, throwing a hand over his mouth as if scandalized. “Is he going to let you try to catch those blasted white peacocks?”

A small giggle escaped Granger’s mouth. Theo leaned even further forward, making eye contact with Granger who looked just as surprised at the noise as Draco was sure that he himself did. Draco wasn’t sure what he was feeling in his chest, be it because it was unfamiliar, or he had become so good at suppressing his own emotions he didn’t know anymore. He watched, still standing, as Granger pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and clamped down on it with her own teeth as if scared that she would let out another noise of joy.

Theo finally looked away, taking a moment to look at Draco who felt stiff; like he was intruding on a moment between two old friends. Granger’s eyes turned to him as well, and with the ever-present fear that was in her eyes he felt angry. Draco was almost certain the two had never met before, and he felt something else stir in his chest.

“Shut up, Theo,” he snarled, watching as his friend only smirked at him. It was only Granger who flinched backwards at his harsh tone.

Theo ignored him, merely laughing as he looked back at Granger with a conspiratorial wink before looking down at her half-eaten dinner tray. A biscuit sat nearest to him and his eyes flashed to hers. He raised his eyebrows and looked back at the biscuit, making sure her eyes followed.

“You going to eat that?” he asked, already reaching for the snack and flashing her a toothy smile. He bit into it before she had even answered, crumbs spilling down his front.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Draco said with a scowl, watching as Granger’s light smile fled the moment he began talking. Theo smiled and took another taunting bite, obviously inebriated.

Granger smiled again, looking up at Theo with big eyes, as if she couldn’t quite believe the scene that was unfolding in front of her. Draco took another step towards the pair, and immediately Granger’s eyes were back to watching him as she slid backwards on the carpet to put more distance between the two of them. His anger flared again, despite not knowing exactly where it came from. Theo watched the pair with a knowing glint in his eyes that Draco didn’t have the capacity to think about.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Draco demanded, looking down at the small witch. “Are you trying to starve yourself to death?”

Granger had been given a sandwich and soup, not dissimilar to what the four boys had snacked on with their drinks. She had obviously only taken a few bites of the sandwich but had finished half the soup and taken a few small sips of the pumpkin juice. He could see the spread of potions vials, already drained for the evening.

Granger shrugged as she glared at him, steel in her brown eyes. “Not really hungry.”

He knew he was being irrational, that for the second time in as many days she was going to push him over some unexpected edge he had not foreseen. His body tensed as he got ready to berate his peer as if she was a child.

“Draco,” Theo said softly, causing him to whirl on his foot to face his friend, but Theo was already back looking at Granger who was crossing her legs below her body to sit more comfortably. “Granger, are you feeling okay?”

Her eyes flickered between the two men, before finally settling back on his friend. “I-” she started, and even from his position standing above her Draco could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. She bit her lip again, before starting with a voice that was surprisingly strong.

“I hadn’t been eating much before, and with everything else, it’s just a little painful.”

He felt another rush of guilt, and Draco could feel his own eyes softening, but Granger was staring resolutely at the floor.

“So, more soup?” Theo joked, pushing the hair from his face. Granger looked up at him with that same soft half-smile from before, nodding her head.

“Thanks,” she whispered, so soft that both boys leaned forward to catch her words. Theo clapped his hands together, nodding very seriously for a man who was obviously quite far from sobriety.

“Well, now that’s all sorted, perhaps it’s time for bed. Draco, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m happy to take to take another room in this wing?”

Draco almost said that he _did_ mind but Theo was already extending a hand to Granger to help pull her up from the floor. She looked at it tentatively before gracefully stretching out her own fingers to place her hand in his. Draco had been so cognizant of not touching the girl that he almost broke with the ease which Theo did; he almost broke out in one of his father’s rants about dirty blood but held himself back as he watched the two interact.

Theo had pulled Granger off the floor and was making some off-color joke when suddenly she froze, her eyes fixated on the portion of his sleeve that had ridden up.

Not much of the mark was exposed, but there on Theo’s arm was a portion of ink that marked him as a servant of the Dark Lord. The skin around the black mark was red and cracked, similar to Draco’s own mark, which he refrained from touching. Theo noticed Granger’s gaze immediately, using his other hand to pull his robes down over the mark, but it was too late. Something in the room had already broken.

Granger took a wobbly step backwards, wincing in obvious discomfort, her eyes never leaving Theo’s left arm. The other man sighed heavily, reaching out to offer to escort Granger back towards the bed, but at the movement the woman looked up, startled. Her eyes closed as she took a deep breath, shaking her head. Again, Draco was struck by just how small she was, almost a full head shorter than both him and Theo.

Theo began to say her name, but she cut him off quickly. “I’d like to go to bed now, if that’s alright,” she said quietly, looking back at the floor as she began to fidget with her hands. Theo shot Draco a helpless look, but he felt unsure of what to offer his friend. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what Granger thought of him. She was a prisoner, and the less attached to her he was, the better.

Besides, it wasn’t like he and Granger were able to be friends in such a house. Not when they could be summoned away at any moment by the Dark Lord. Not with his master’s obsessive view on personal relationships and the manipulation of such. Maybe Theo didn’t know. Maybe Theo didn’t fully understand the mental torture Draco went through on a regular basis. To be forced to live in a house where every interaction could lead to punishment; shoving every moment of joy with Theo or his mother or Vince or Greg away so that he didn’t put them in any more danger than absolutely necessary. He refused to allow himself to think of Pansy, and he didn’t even like her that much anymore.

To add anyone else to that short list would be too much, so he just shook his head and moved towards the door hearing Theo follow him out.

The door shut behind the two men automatically and they both stood silently for a moment, as if listening to see what the witch on the other side of the door would do.

It was silent.

Finally, Theo turned towards Draco and opened his mouth to speak.

“She’s gotten pretty, eh?” He laughed, though the air was still tense. Draco closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, groaning. He had made a point to avoid lies, finding that he often withheld the truth instead. Theo deserved the truth in that moment.

“S’not worth it to think about,” he responded. Theo blew a heavy breath out of his mouth before smirking at Draco.

“Maybe it’ll be good for you.”

Draco did not allow himself to think about what that meant.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you if you've been reading this story! If you're here and have been following, I wanted to add a larger Harry Potter / Dramione disclaimer that I've also added at the beginning as well.
> 
> The first is that I do not endorse JKR’s views on the trans community. I am so appalled by her (and the HP actors who refuse to speak up) continual endorsement of transphobia. Trans rights are human rights. 
> 
> Second is on the concept of Dramione. I started this story because I was curious about what could have made Draco Malfoy a redeemed character in my eyes, especially as he does join the Death Eaters willingly and is incredibly spoiled (and not abused) in the books. I think that fanon has largely said that he should be redeemed, but that doesn’t take away from his actions that were made of his own accord. I obviously think people can evolve and change, but that does not erase his past. In writing Dramione, I often find Draco is portrayed as abused/weak/manipulated, and the onus is often on Hermione to fix him, and I wanted to challenge those ideas. 
> 
> With this, I wanted to write a fic that explored that element of Draco - this story often provides more information than is required in good storytelling (ex. the shift in 3rd person narrator), because I really wanted to explore this concept of “what could have made Draco Malfoy redeem himself?”
> 
> I also take issue with the way that a lot of Dramione fanfics are written (namely, the amount of sexual assault / coercion, ease of forgiveness of a childhood bully who called her slurs, etc.). I am very mindful of this while writing, and please feel free to call me out if I make you uncomfortable (I can’t promise I’ll always change things, but would love to know going forward) or making things dark for the sake of being dark.

Hermione assumed she was having nightmares.

This seemed to be a fairly valid assumption as she woke up tangled in her sheets, staring into the yellow eyes of the worried house elf. Her body hurt worse than when she had fallen asleep, and she could smell the faint smell of something burning. For a moment she thought she saw another figure in the room and looked to Malfoy’s potions desk, but no one was there.

“Another seizure, miss,” Zilly said, tipping her head back and pouring a potion down her throat. Her head felt foggy, almost as if she was watching her own body through someone else’s eyes.

“Wha-?” Hermione began, but the elf had shushed her, and she quickly fell back into the darkness.

* * *

The next time she woke it was morning. This time it wasn’t the noise of Zilly; instead, she woke to the metallic clang of a ladle against a cauldron. Before she even opened her eyes, she knew that Malfoy was brewing something at his potions desk.

Hermione kept her eyes closed, able to sense the light from under her heavy lids as she slowly tested her body beneath the covers. She was sore in more places than she had been going to bed last night. The night before, she had felt strong enough to pull the nightgown she now wore over her head alone, and today she wondered if rolling over to look at Malfoy would sap all of her strength for the rest of the day. It felt not unlike waking up after a prolonged basilisk-induced sleep.

Her eyes were still shut, but she could hear Malfoy mutter something under his breath and the sound of a quill scratching against a parchment. The potion sizzled slightly, the viscous substance hitting the sides of the cauldron, and a faint lavender scent reached her nose.

She inhaled deeply, turning her head towards the bench before slowly opening her eyes. From what she could tell, Malfoy hadn’t noticed she was awake yet, still engrossed in the brew that he was hovering over. Hermione spent a moment taking him in without his piercing eyes zeroed in on her.

Every time she looked at him, she couldn’t help but be taken aback. His back was less broad than it had been during their time at Hogwarts, and he moved stiffly. His blond hair was still shiny, but it hung more limply than she had seen it before. She knew that if he turned around his face would be drawn, sharp and aristocratic, but too hollow.

Hermione watched as Malfoy leaned backwards, away from the potion, to take a seat on the small stool. Even at rest he wasn’t relaxed, his hand coming up to ruffle his hair almost immediately. Her mind immediately thought of Harry and Ron and her heart clenched.

There was a moment where she felt sorry for Malfoy. Seeing him hunched over a potion in too-large robes with his head in his hand tugged at her heartstrings, and she knew that if it was Harry, she would have already had her arms around him; she would have pressed her face into his back until he finally fell apart in her arms. If it was Ron she would have slid into his arms and dragged his heavy hands over her shoulders until he finally held her and buried his face into her hair.

But this was neither Harry nor Ron.

She cursed herself for having to continually remind herself of where she was. She knew Draco Malfoy, and yet for some reason this situation seemed to sap that knowledge from her. Like the night before, she had been too comfortable, too at ease, laughing with Theodore Nott. It was hard to create separation when it was her classmates – her peers – who were doing the killing.

While she had never known him well, seeing the Dark Mark on Theodore Nott had been a shock she had been unprepared for. Theodore had been in study groups with her, taking the time to lightly tease the other members, never going too far. He had been in her prefect meetings; he had once filled in for Ernie to do prefect rounds with her. He was a Slug Club member, for Circe’s sake. Theodore Nott always seemed to be the better part of Slytherin House, the smarts sans the evil.

Draco Malfoy had always been a given – he had always been loud about his beliefs in blood purity. He had always been a bully; while she had defended him to Harry, it hadn’t been too big a shock when it was him _– of course it was Malfoy_ the whispers had said _–_ who led the campaign of Death Eaters into Hogwarts.

But she remained confused. She couldn’t understand the books and the trays of food. Getting into a comfortable bed after a luxurious bath felt like she was betraying her friends, who were likely camped out in some woods, scavenging for food. Every small consideration felt like a stab in her gut.

It could be an intentional tactic, she reminded herself. Get her to let her guard down before ransacking her brain. Allow her body to heal just enough before putting it through some new torture.

Her eyes welled at the thought, and she pushed her fist into her mouth to stifle the watery intake of breath, but it was too late. Malfoy had already heard.

He was turning to face her, his face hard, just as she had predicted.

“I trust that you can remain silent for the day?” he asked, his voice detached, but not unkind.

Hermione nodded curtly. Through the mask, Malfoy sneered in response.

“Do you need another book, or are these enough?” he taunted, waving his hand at the stack of tomes that she had assembled on her nightstand the night before.

“S’enough.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of engaging her further.

“I’m sure Zilly will be up with your breakfast tray soon,” was all he said before giving her a hard look and turning back to his potions desk.

Hermione waited for him to say something else, something biting that would give her some anger to hold on to for the day, but Malfoy was silent, now focused on chopping some ingredient. She watched his fingers for a moment – something that was incredibly reminiscent of her time at Hogwarts.

She felt that little prickle in her chest, wanting to say something to make Malfoy bring his attention back to her. But, not wanting to be the one who started another engagement Hermione grabbed the top book – a fancier re-print of Karuzos’ _New Theory of Numerology_ – and began to read silently.

* * *

If she was being honest, Hermione was surprised that Malfoy managed to stay silent for as long as he did. She was still working to reconcile her boisterous classmate with the stoic man she had been forced to interact with in her prison and she kept waiting for him to turn around and taunt her about anything – her blood status, her hair… but there was nothing.

Zilly had brought a tray of tea and oatmeal, and while Malfoy had glanced backwards twice – once at Zilly’s initial appearance and a second time to look at the tray to make sure it was partially empty before the elf removed it – he said nothing through the morning.

Occasionally their eyes would meet in the mirror over the foot of the bed, and Malfoy would look back to his desk. Hermione could feel her eyes dart away, embarrassed, but Malfoy made slower movements, his eyes staying fixed on her for just a moment too long. Hermione would return to her book.

Lunch passed in a silence similar to breakfast, and it wasn’t until the afternoon that Malfoy locked his bench, dipped his head, and retreated from the room.

All of it without a word to Hermione. She didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

And then, she didn’t see Malfoy for the next four days.

Instead, she finished the first book and started another, focused on her mantra of: _For Harry For Ron For Harry For Ron_ , hoping to find something in some newer editions that would help in any way she could imagine. She read into the evenings, took her dinner and then a bath before crawling back into the large bed, a book in hand.

She poured through volumes, knowing that she would find nothing new or helpful among the books in her prison. She had even spent time in the old textbooks, where instead of her name “Draconis Lucius Malfoy” was stamped into the inside of every cover. She had found old scribbles, additional potions instructions, and the mnemonics he used to memorize the Goblin Rebellions (not dissimilar to hers, he had also used the minister’s names – Boot, Flack, and Gore – to spell out the important Goblins). She had found class notes, doodles of Harry falling of his broom that sent her into a crying spell, and an early draft of “Weasley is Our King” with a much worse rhyme scheme than the final version.

Even with those small reminders of where she was, it was hard not to feel grateful at the meals and warm bath and books. When Zilly gave her a pain potion when she grimaced, she almost praised the Malfoy name, settling instead at giving the elf a small smile. She had even begun to feel comfortable curling up in the massive bed, able to recognize the harmless shapes in the room even under the cover of darkness.

There were moments of distrust, of course. She had thrown her comb at the mirror in a fit of unexplained rage. Zilly had appeared too quickly, sending her into a panicked mess on the floor. She had spent countless hours trying the two locked doors and picking at the window lock until her fingers bled. She had tugged at the anklet until her ankle was red and raw; until each time the torn flesh made contact with the metal, she had winced at the stinging pain.

No matter the comfort, she was still a prisoner.

She took to reading and re-reading a small blue book from next to Malfoy’s desk – _Closing_ _Consciousness: A Beginners Guide to a Guarded Mind_ , attempting to internalize every word. Hermione spent hours sitting in the giant bed, working to silence her thoughts. She built boxes in her mind; mentally folding the cardboard the same way her father had the first time they had moved homes. She did the meditations, breathing quietly as she tried to find the _still and calm_ that the book described.

She was not a fool, she knew that her mind was likely why she had been kept alive, and she would go to her grave protecting the secrets it held. If too much got out – if Voldemort knew how much they knew – she had no doubt that he would have the advantage to crush whatever rebellions sprung up against him.

It was only Voldemort’s hubris that allowed for his undoing currently; she would not be the one to cue him in to that fact.

* * *

By day three of no Malfoy, Hermione had read _Closing Consciousness_ twice in full, and continued to pour over certain sections repeatedly. A few chapters outlined the opening meditations that she had learned from Professor Snape via Harry in more detail than her friend had provided, and she spent as much time as she could muster cross-legged on the bed trying to make her mind blank.

The books instructions made it seem so easy. _Count backwards from ten to zero and then clear your mind_ , it instructed. _Just close your eyes and allow yourself to drift away from your physical body. Without being able to let go you will never be able to progress to further steps in our process!_

Letting go and not thinking had never been specialty of Hermione Granger’s. Her father had once said as much to her after a particularly poor conference with her primary school teachers, and her mind kept filling in the silence.

“Sweetheart, maybe – and it’s not your fault, of course – you could just let your teachers do the whole lesson before asking questions,” her father had said, a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Malfoy had said as much also, albeit with harsher phrasing, during their time at Hogwarts.

Sitting with her legs folded under herself, she scowled. It was a good thing to have a busy mind. Her mind had saved Harry Potter – and by extension, the wizarding world – multiple times. She was the notorious brains of their trio; that was because she thought things through. Her mind wasn’t silent because she had things to think about.

She had to think about things like Malfoy. Things like how Harry and Ron were faring, if they had escaped Malfoy Manor unharmed. Things like the fact that her body seemed to be unable to go a full day without sending her into a panic-induced seizure.

There was much she had to think about.

And by that logic, she had much to lock away.

Closing her eyes, she began the countdown backwards from ten once more.

* * *

And then Malfoy returned.

He said nothing, but she woke, sore and smelling that burning smell that she was coming to realize had meant a fit and a seizure had occurred that evening, to find Draco Malfoy brewing in the room she was quickly coming to call her own.

She had breathed his name under her breath in surprise, watching how his shoulders tensed before he turned to face her, expressionless.

She stared dumbly at his face – sallower than she remembered – for a moment before finally letting her breath go. “You’re back.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about this fact.

“Zilly said you’ve been good,” he remarked, a smirk twisting his face.

Hermione frowned, unable to stop the words from tumbling from her lips. “I’m not a pet.”

Malfoy gave her a disdainful once-over, his eyes moving quickly over her form. “No, you’re much worse than that, aren’t you?”

“Malfoy-” she began, but he shook his head.

“Can you be quiet, or do I have to silence you?”

Hermione felt her eyes widen. “I can be quiet.”

Malfoy’s lips pursed and he nodded curtly before turning back to his bench, plunging them back into the silence she had come to loathe.

* * *

Something was wrong.

Hermione wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong, but something was. She felt it in her gut as her mind guided her through her past through the fog of half-consciousness. It wasn’t quite a dream – _she didn’t dream_ – but it was something close. She could sense the darkness of the room around her, yet for some reason still felt the tendrils of sleep the clung to her body.

_“Sorry, ‘Mione, you’ve been gone all year! It only makes sense that Sophie’s now my best friend.”_

_“But-”_

_“Look we’ve always known you’ve been smart, it’s nice for us to have a chance to shine at school too, you know?”_

Something shifted.

_“He’s left us, Harry, he’s gone.”_

_“I know, Hermione.” Warm arms engulfed her as she began to cry._

_“How- even if- how would I- we ever move past this?”_

_Silence, and then, “I don’t know.”_

_She sobbed again, “He’s always going to have left when I needed him most.”_

Another.

_“You didn’t have to take the blame for us, you know?”_

_“I know that, Ronald.”_

_“So, why did you?”_

_“Couldn’t think of anything else in the moment.”_

_“Could’ve just said you were in the loo.”_

A shift.

_“I know that you don’t get it, but we’ve got to help out more when he’s having the headaches.”_

_“I’m not here to be your servant.”_

_“You think I don’t know that?”_

_“You don’t bloody act like it.”_

_“We are meant to be helping Harry, Ron. That’s what’s most important.”_

_“Course he’s what’s most important.”_

Headaches.

_“I’m sorry, mum, I’ve got to go-”_

_“I don’t understand, Hermione.”_

_“I know but Harry- he’s got these moments where- it doesn’t really matter, does it?”_

_“It does when my only child is missing the holidays.”_

_“My best friend’s father almost died!”_

_“Your father-”_

She was sure – it wasn’t a dream – but she was foggy as she was dropped into another moment.

_“I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not leave.”_

She woke with a gasp, quieting instantly when she felt the wand tip pressed into her temple. She hadn’t given anything away, there was no new information that had been pulled from her mind. Now, it was only a battle between herself and whoever was in her room.

“Please,” she began, already begging the unknown figure for any sort of leniency.

It was to no avail. “ _Crucio._ ”

She couldn’t help the scream that tore from her body as she thrashed in the covers. As she came back into herself, she immediately knew the voice and shape that hovered over her to be Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman of her nightmares. Hermione could feel her own body tensing, the panic beginning to flood her chest as she gasped for breath.

“What are you hiding, little mudblood?” Bellatrix hissed, stale spit landing on Hermione’s face as she writhed underneath the weight of Bellatrix. The older witch was sitting on top of her in the bed; she could feel the woman’s legs on either side of her body, the wand digging into her throat.

“Nothing,” Hermione sobbed, yelping slightly as a slap sent her face sideways into the bed. “Nothing! I swear!”

Her own arm was yanked towards her face, fingers pressing into the barely healed _Mudblood_ scar on her left arm. They dug into the skin, which sprang open at the pressure, red droplets falling onto Hermione’s face.

“No,” she whimpered, the implication hurting more than the wound itself.

“No?” Bellatrix questioned, her eyes flashing in the darkness. “No, you’re not a little mudblood? No, I shouldn’t tear you apart right here?” Her voice dropped to a threatening hiss, despite the fact that no one else was in the room. “You embarrassed me in front of my master, this reminder is the least I can do.”

Hermione hadn’t let her guard down, but she felt the semblance of security she had come to have within Malfoy Manor falling away. Despite her reminders to herself, she had gotten too comfortable. She had allowed herself to sleep in the enemy’s den. This was her fault.

“A mudblood and a liar,” Bellatrix hissed, sending another ripple of pain through Hermione’s body.

Hermione hated the person that the pain curse reduced her to, but she couldn’t help herself as she screamed again. Moody – both versions of the man – had spent time teaching her the Unforgivables but had failed to prepare her for the aching burning that flooded her veins. He had failed to understand that _she couldn’t;_ he had never conveyed that it would make her beg for the end in such a way.

Light flooded the room, illuminating the crazy witch above her.

Bellatrix’s wild hair blanketed them both; this was the closest Hermione had felt to death herself. She knew that Bellatrix Lestrange wasn’t a large woman, but what she lacked in size she made up for in sheer terror. Her hollow eyes stared into Hermione’s soul as one hand came up to grasp her throat. She struggled slightly, feeling the air drain from her windpipe, ignoring the wand that was pressed to her temple.

Bellatrix smiled, her teeth glinting in the new light.

“I think that’s quite enough, Aunt Bella.”

Hermione had never been so grateful for Draco Malfoy in all of her life. She could see the witch’s eyes dart sideways, her hand loosening slightly around Hermione’s neck. Hermione spluttered, working to pull oxygen back into her lungs as the older woman began to lean backwards.

“Aunt Bella,” Malfoy said again, his voice cold. “Our master said that she was to be kept alive.”

Hermione could feel Bellatrix’s weight shift before she was free of the older woman, allowing her to scramble away from that side of the bed. She felt the disarray of her nightgown, tugging it up to make sure it covered her entire chest.

She glared accusingly at Malfoy, but his eyes were fixed on his aunt. He wasn’t holding his wand tightly, instead it was loose in his fingers, as if he had forgotten that it was there. Bellatrix’s posture did not match, her wand pointed into Malfoy’s chest.

Bellatrix’s red lips parted before she smiled at her nephew. “You do not dictate what fun I get to have in this house.”

Malfoy shrugged casually, though his eyes were sharp. “He told me to keep her alive.”

“ _Crucio_.”

Bellatrix muttered the curse with a smile on her lips; before Hermione knew what was happening Malfoy was his knees. She could feel the panic closing in around her but forced herself to watch as the black-haired witch muttered another curse.

“ _Legilimens_.”

Malfoy stiffened on the ground, his fists stilling against the carpet as he hung his head on floor. She couldn’t see the majority of his face, buried in the carpet, but could hear his heavy breaths in the quiet room. Bellatrix’s face twisted into her signature smile as Malfoy let out a pathetic whimper from low in his throat.

“You’d do well to remember, nephew,” Bellatrix snarled as she flounced towards the door.

Malfoy stood as his aunt exited, his fingers scrambling on the floor to grasp his wand. There was a pause – a long moment where they both strained their ears to hear if Bellatrix was returning – before Malfoy took a half step towards the bed. Hermione watched him through weary eyes.

He said her last name softly, and suddenly the spell was broken. Hermione took a deep breath, her mind beginning to leave her body. Until Malfoy Manor she had never dealt with these moments of panic in a way that was debilitating, but something now was sending her mind reeling through space.

She was gasping, fighting for air, stuck fully inside her own mind. Malfoy was saying something to her, moving through the room as it closed in around her. He was prying her fingers open, shoving a vial into her hand and tilting her head backwards. She coughed, the potion clogging her throat as she slowly returned to the room. Opening her mouth to ask Malfoy about the potion, she found him already bandaging her arm, the word disappearing under white gauze.

“Don’t worry, Granger, I made them for myself. It’s just to calm you down.”

He had made potions to calm himself. He had _needed_ to develop a potion to calm himself down.

Malfoy was pulling backwards, walking towards the bench and away from the bed. He held a small purple vial, his eyes questioning. Hermione shook her head no, immediately recognizing the color of Dreamless Sleep, watching as Malfoy’s mouth shifted at her actions. He plucked another potion vial from the bench, walking it towards her.

“It’s early in the morning, Granger. You should take something else to sleep for a few hours, at least.”

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the hot tears that had already streaked down her cheeks. She shook her head slowly, looking up to meet Malfoy’s eyes. He mirrored her, his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his pale lids heavy before het wet his bottom lip and placed the vial on the bed next to her hand.

“I’ll leave the Dreamless out if you need it then,” his voice was quiet as he waved his wand, floating the second potion over to her. She nodded, uncapping the first potion and sipping it slowly, almost enjoying the taste of peppermint that he had obviously brewed in.

Malfoy’s eyes examined her for another moment before he stepped back towards his door. Hermione watched as he turned back around, fingers grasping the doorknob, to look at her in the mirror.

“Granger-” he swallowed deeply, something cracking in his cold expression. “If you’re up for it, maybe tomorrow we can visit the library.”

Quickly, Malfoy stepped through the door and was gone.

She spent a moment breathing, just trying to quiet her body down, but found herself continuing the fall into the throes of panic. She could feel the potion, pulling her back from the ledge, almost too influential over her personality. Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age, should be pounding the walls, fighting, not curled up docilly in Malfoy Manor.

It only took another moment to remember why she wasn’t. The flashes of the cruciatus and the probing of her already tired mind would not be easy to forget.And she wouldn’t forget. She couldn’t.

Her fingers shook as she pulled _Closing Consciousness_ from her bedside table, promising not to sleep until she had at least mastered the first meditations.

_Ten, nine, eight…_


End file.
